


Marvolo's Ring

by ImperialPepper



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Harry, Dark Magic, Horcruxes, M/M, Slash, Slow Burn, Slytherin Harry, The Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-05-12 16:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5673445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperialPepper/pseuds/ImperialPepper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vernon Dursley changes the course of wizarding history, when he gives his wife Petunia a ring for her birthday. </p><p>Slow Burner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.i Origins

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I do not own the Harry Potter universe.

I.i Origins

* * *

_February 24th, 1986_

* * *

 

She opened the box with the utmost care, only to raise a bony hand to her open mouth.

“Oh Vernon…It’s _perfect_.”

Harry sat up, straining his neck to try and get a look at it only to be shoved back hard by his much larger cousin Dudley, who leered down at him nastily. Harry glared back furiously, rubbing his thin shoulder with a small hand.

“Oh, it fits!” Harry turned his attention back to his aunt only to see her raising her hand towards the light, a band of gold flashing from her index finger. However, the ring was out of sight in another moment, as Petunia threw herself forward to embrace her husband, who gave a startled grunt before chuckling.

“Glad you like it Pet.”

“It looks expensive—“

“Yes, well, got to keep the woman of the house happy, eh Dudley?”

Dudley, who had gotten bored of having to watch other people open their presents and so had switched on the TV, did not reply. Vernon let out another booming laugh anyway, only for the jovial expression to slide off his face like tar as he caught the eye of his nephew.

“Boy, go get the dinner on.”

Hiding a sigh, Harry slunk off to the kitchen.

* * *

_March 7th, 1986_

* * *

“Vernon – I feel quite faint.”

Harry looked up from the counter where he was making a sandwich for his cousin’s lunch, only to see his Aunt leaning heavily against the doorframe. Harry squinted. For someone that appeared to be fatless on a normal day, Aunt Petunia was looking particularly gaunt.

She stepped forward shakily into the room, and the daylight streaming through the window fell upon a white, haggard face.

Vernon grunted, not looking up from his breakfast. “I’ll drop you off at the Doctors on the way to work, Pet.”

* * *

_April 1st, 1986_

* * *

Aunt Petunia was dead.

She had made the third page of the _Surrey Comet_ ; ‘Little Whinging Housewife Petunia Dursley dies of Unknown Causes’. The article detailed her speedy deterioration, and the lack of any knowledge as to the cause of it.

Uncle Vernon had taken to pacing through the kitchen, touching his dead wife’s prized kitchen appliances. He hadn’t been to work in three days, and was ignoring the constantly ringing telephone. He had even curbed his excessive eating habits, consuming just enough food to give him the energy to carry on with his pacing. It seemed quite strange to Harry. He didn’t understand why his uncle was so distressed. Aunt Petunia hadn’t been very nice.

The small boy peered at his guardian from his seat in the living room. The man had lost quite a bit of weight, although he didn’t look any the better for it. His face was taking on the gaunt appearance his aunt’s had after she had gotten ill, and his skin was sickly pale and heavily lined.

However, what struck Harry as the strangest thing of all was the ring. It was attached to Vernon’s neck by a chain, bouncing up and down in time with his paces. What was so strange about it was that Harry had seen his uncle angrily throw it in the bin, the day he returned from the hospital with the bundle of his wife’s clothing. Yet there it was, nestled against the older man’s clothed chest.

He tore his gaze away from it’s glinting, and carried on reading his book.

 

* * *

_April 3rd, 1986_

* * *

There was a sharp rap on the door, and Harry swallowed in trepidation – _she_ was here.

Hearing no activity from elsewhere in the house, he resigned himself to the task of letting her in. As he entered the hallway all hope that he might be mistaken was dashed at the grotesquely large silhouette shadowing the glass of the door, and he reluctantly undid the catch.

“Oh.” Aunt Marge pushed past him into the hall brusquely. “I didn’t know you were still here. Bring in my luggage.” As her small nephew struggled with several large suitcases, she surveyed the disordered hallway, tutting at the dirty shoes strewn messily across the floor and nudging an empty bottle of Sprite with her foot. “It’s the least you could do to keep the place clean, boy, whilst your uncle and nephew are grieving. I suppose you always have been lazy - where’s my Dudders?”

Harry didn’t reply, and she growled at him like a dog, before stomping off up the stairs, the creaking wood screeching at her weight.

* * *

_April 6th, 1986_

* * *

There was something wrong. Harry could feel it.

Shutting the front door gently behind him, he padded through the hallway into the kitchen, quietly dropping his schoolbag by the door of his cupboard.

He was surprised to see that it was empty, before a rasping cough drew his attention to the area of floor hidden by the kitchen counter.

A mixture of intrigue and foreboding began to gnaw at him, and he slowly walked towards the noise. His eyes widened as a twitching pair of feet came into view, followed shortly by the expanse of a trembling body. It was male, and completely naked - clothes lay strewn over the tiled floor beside it.

The sight was horrifying. The body appeared to be fleshless, and the excess skin, stretched by fat that no longer existed, hung loosely around a skeletal figure from which bones were protruding obscenely.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Harry registered that this withered creature was his Uncle, and that his condition was far from natural – just that morning he had seen him, pale and withdrawn but still looking very much like the overweight middle-aged man Harry had always known him to be.

However, all he could focus on was the pair of dead eyes staring back up at him. For some implacable reason, they reminded him of a flash of green light and a splash of bright red hair long ago.

A flash of gold suddenly caught the boy’s attention.

The ring was sitting benignly on the man’s convulsing, shrunken breast, the shiny band flickering with the light from the kitchen bulb just as it had been when Harry first saw it. It’s rich, golden colour clashed horribly with the sallow unhealthiness of Vernon’s bare skin, and Harry felt a sudden urge to snatch it from him.

He stepped forward—

The front door slammed open.

He heard her storm into the kitchen. “BOY! How _dare_ you run off ahead! I won’t have it you little—”

His Aunt cut herself off with a quivering gasp, and there was silence for a moment before it was followed by an odd, shuddering whine.

“My—Vernon?” Harry had never heart Aunt Marge whisper. There was silence for a second, which seemed to stretch into two, and three, until it felt as if hundreds of unnaturally long minutes had passed, aunt and nephew locked into silent, horrified observation.

Suddenly, he felt a shift behind him: a rustle of cloth. “You did this. Didn’t you?” Her voice was unusually quiet. He tried to say no, but somehow the words were caught in his throat. “It was Petunia first…now, now you’ve _taken_ my brother...”

Harry hunched a little, waiting for the blow that was undoubtedly coming.

Except it didn’t.

He looked up over his shoulder at the great, flabby figure of his Aunt, which was shaking a little, and as he peered at her face he was shocked to see something in her eyes that he had never seen there before— _fear_.

“Vernon always said you were funny. _Unnatural_. I didn’t doubt him, God knows your parents—but I—” Her words were damning, and along with the fear in her voice there was horror; disgust. “Just leave me alone. And Dudley, just leave us alone—“

They were both wrenched from their intense exchange as Dudley’s heavy steps sounded in the hallway. “Auntie?“

Marge hurried from the room in a flurry of movement, no doubt to rush Dudley away from the horrors of what she had just witnessed. Harry had no such protector, and so he stayed staring at the body in the kitchen - or rather, at the pulsing, golden ornament around it’s neck - until exactly eight minutes later the police siren wailed up Privet Drive and he was ushered away into the hands of the government.

* * *

_May 14th 1986_

* * *

“I’m afraid Harry, that you are going to be unable to live with your aunt.”

The strange woman smiled at him weakly, her eyes scanning his for any signs of the distress and perhaps anger that she felt was likely to manifest. She looked old and tired, and she had forgotten to iron her shirt. Harry could count five creases in the material peeking out from under her navy blue jacket.

Her words barely registered. He’d never even entertained the idea of living with Aunt Marge: her last words to him had been a clear indication she never wanted to set eyes on him again.

“Of course, Harry, we’ll do our best to ensure you still get to see your family, and that they will come to visit you.”

An awkward silence hung in the air, both aware of the falsity of her well-intended statement.

“So where am I going?”

* * *

_June 27th 1986_

* * *

Harry quite liked the orphanage. It was big, and anonymous, and the people who ran it were nice to him - most of the time anyway.

They had made him go on a special diet, and while it had been hard to eat three meals a day for the first few months, he soon got used to it. In fact, he felt stronger and healthier than he could ever remember. He found, to his delight, that he could look in the mirror and find more to please him than just the jagged scar he’d previously reveled in; his skin was no longer just pale but had a healthy tinge to it, and, whilst he remained very skinny, he no longer looked emaciated – his ribs only stuck out when he inhaled.

He had his own bedroom; an actual room instead of a cupboard, with a full-sized single bed, a wardrobe, and four blank walls he was free to decorate as he pleased – he had quickly set to work on a number of drawings to make the space feel like his own. He had even been allowed to pick the colour of his bed sheets – green, like his eyes.

But, what was best of all was that his room had a window. The cupboard where he had previously slept hadn’t had a window. It had been stuffy and dark; the only light being from the too-bright bulb swinging from above his bed, and the only air that which filtered in from the hallway through the grate fixed on his door. Now, daylight and fresh air breezed in, day and night. The care-workers, whilst occasionally commenting on the pretty ring that covered the pictures on Harry’s wall, never commented on the ever-open window. Even on nights when the rain blew through, or the cold meant Harry had to have extra blankets. He supposed they were used to dealing with children like him. An open window was likely the least of the strange habits they observed in the children they looked after: the least unsettling hangover of a troubled past.

The other kids weren’t too bad.

Some didn’t talk, and there were a couple of older boys who picked on Harry a little when the mood struck them. But, overall, everyone was reasonably friendly, and there were a group of children around his age who he played games with in the garden after school.

School itself wasn’t great. Not as nasty as it had been with Dudley, but the other children knew he was from the care-home, and tended to avoid him. As he heard a boy whispering in the playground one grey Tuesday: he was _different_.

* * *

_November 4th, 1986_

* * *

“Now, Harry, I take it you know why you’re here?” Harry nodded at Mr. Gregory: he did. But he hadn’t meant to, he really hadn’t. Honestly, he didn’t even know how it had happened! But Mr. Gregory looked angry, and he shrunk back into his seat.

“To climb up onto the roof is against the house-rules, and more importantly it is _incredibly dangerous_! _Imagine_ if you had fallen!” Mr. Gregory’s voice was raised, his tone almost scary.

Harry hung his head.

“Harry,” Mr. Gregory’s voice is softer, and Harry looked up to see the older man had slumped back in his chair, now looking more tired than anything else. “You’re a nice boy - what exactly got into you? You’ve never given us any trouble before.” Harry bit his lip, looking up into the man’s kindly eyes, which gave the impression of twinkling. The head of the orphanage always seemed like a nice man, and even the older kids in the home seemed to have an untold respect for him. He thought that perhaps if he explained what had happened, he would understand.

“I didn’t climb up there, Sir, I _swear_ I didn’t.” He emphasized the word swear, to show just how serious he was being. The older man looked back at him carefully.

“Come now, my boy, how would you have gotten onto the roof otherwise? No staircase goes up there, when we had to get you down we had the call the firemen—”

“I just – I just _appeared_ up there! One minute I was down on the ground, running away from—running, and suddenly I was on the roof!”

Harry swallowed hard at the disappointed look on the older man’s face. “That’s a very naughty lie, Harry. People don’t just pop up on roofs – that’s _impossible_. You can’t be in one place one moment and then, _magically_ , just be somewhere else. I’m going to give you one more chance to admit what happened, or I’m afraid I will have to punish you, do you understand?”

Harry’s eyes widened at the word: _punishment_. Memories of weekends without food and going outside flashed behind his eyes. He dropped his gaze to the floor. After a few long seconds of silence, he replied:

“I-I’m sorry sir, I did climb.”

Lying wasn’t something that came naturally to Harry; he took no pleasure in deceiving others. However, as Mr. Gregory accepted his apology with a smile and ushered him out into the hallway, he began to realise that lying might be something he was going to have to get used to. For his own good. The people here were nicer than the Dursley’s had been, but, as Mr. Gregory had just shown, that still did not mean they understood.

* * *

_January 5th 1987_

* * *

It felt odd, sitting in one of the visiting rooms. Harry never got visitors.

Today the room was empty of everyone except him, Mr. Gregory, and the woman with the crumpled shirt. The faces of both adults were grave, and Mr. Gregory placed a small box of tissues on the wooden table whilst the woman shuffled tiredly through her files.

After a few minutes, the two adults exchanged a look Harry couldn’t quite decipher, before the woman turned to look at him, her expression soft.

“Harry, I’m sorry to say I’ve come with bad news.”

Mr. Gregory wordlessly pushed the tissue box towards him.

“It concerns your aunt and cousin.” Harry’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t heard mention of either in months, and had supposed he’d never see his reluctant relatives again. He couldn’t think of anything that could involve him—“Your Aunt has passed.”

Harry stared at her, confused.

Mr. Gregory cut in, leaning in towards Harry slightly. “What Mrs Rosen means to say Harry, is that you Aunt is dead.”

Harry jerked back in his seat. _Dead_? How could she be _dead_?

“There was an accident, at Mrs Dursley’s home. A fire, as I understand it.”

Harry stared at the man, eyes wide. “A fire? What about Dudley?” The woman stared across at him, her eyes soft. “Your cousin is in the intensive care unit at the hospital. I’m afraid the doctors don’t believe that he’ll recover.”

“I’m so sorry, Harry.” Mr. Gregory reached out and grasped his small hand. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to have experienced such loss. Know that we here at Aspen House will do our best to support you through this time of great difficulty.”

This time, Harry could read the expressions on both of their faces. Pity. During his short lifetime, he had experienced the demise of his entire family; first his parents, then his aunt, then his uncle, and finally Aunt Marge and his cousin Dudley.

He had _hated_ the Dursley’s.

Nevertheless, as he sat there, in a home for unwanted children and without a relative in the world, he couldn’t help but feel desperately alone.


	2. I.ii The Man and the Giant

 

* * *

_August 3rd 1991_

* * *

  
“Oh my god - everyone, LOOK! Look at the man walking up the driveway!”

Harry startled at the scream, dropping his book onto the floor.

A gruff fifteen-year-old grumbled, not bothering to look up from his game of pool. “Shut up Grace—“

“But Alex, he’s HUGE! He must be a giant!” Alex and his friends still didn’t bother moving, but a number of the other children, excited by the prospect of something more interesting than the limited entertainment of board-games and books on offer, wandered over to the window curiously.

“Blimey, she’s right—“

“Wow—“

“He’s twice the size of that man next to him!”

“Whatever is he wearing?”

Harry, his interest piqued, wandered over, his eyes widening at the sight. A man, twice as big as anyone Harry had ever seen, was trudging up the gravel path to Aspen House. Harry had never seen the likes of his strange, furry clothing, and he had the biggest beard the boy had ever seen: a great wiry brown monster hanging heavily across a broad chest. A tall man of more ordinary proportions, long and rigid, was striding along next to him, dressed all in black.

He watched as Mr. Jones, the new head of the home, jogged out to meet them, the giant clasping his hand with a huge paw and giving him a slap on the back so hearty the man stumbled into his chest. The other man offered a short, sharp handshake, before they all made their way into the house.

“What do you think a man like that is doing here?”

“Maybe they’re delivering something?”

“No way, they’re not carrying anything. Maybe they’re adopting?”

“Don’t look much like the adopting type—“

“Looks aren’t everything, Jonathan.”

“Well I’d be pretty scared if that big one came for me—“

The conversation was interrupted as the door clicked open, and one of the care workers popped her head around it, smiling. “Harry? You have visitors.”

Everyone turned to look at him, and he didn’t move for a moment – shocked. He had never had a visitor before. He couldn’t quite bring himself to count the woman who’d brought the news of Aunt Marge and Dudley’s death.

As he left the room, he heard a rush of whispers, cut off as he clicked the door shut. Wondering what on earth these strange people could want with him, he let the woman lead him down the stairs to the visitor’s room, a place where he had only been once before.

“Harry!” Mr. Jones beamed at him as he entered, indicating for him to take a seat next to him. On the opposite side of the table, the man-giant sat, grinning from ear to ear. The other man was sitting next to him, his expression stony. “This is Mr. Hagrid-” The giant gave an enthusiastic wave. “-And Professor Snape,” The black-haired man gave no response. “They’ve got some very exciting news for you.” Mr. Jones nodded to Mr. Hagrid, who seemed to explode across the table to grasp Harry’s hand; his iron-like grip the only thing that prevented the startled boy from falling off his chair.

“Oh ‘Arry!” The giant’s accent was unfamiliar, and his voice gravelly and deep. “’Yeh’ve grown so huge!” The irony of that statement, coming from this man, was not lost on Harry, who stifled a smile. “Last time I saw yeh, yeh were just a baby!”

Harry’s eyes widened. This man had known him?

“Yeh were such a tiny wee thing! I could fit yeh inter the palm of—“

“Sorry, sir, but should I know you?”

The man stopped talking abruptly, putting a great hand to his head. “Sorry ‘Arry, course yeh won’t remember. Yeh were just a baby – I was friends with Lily and James!”

Harry looked back at him blankly. “Who?”

“Lily and James ‘Arry! Yer parents? Don’t tell me yeh don’t know yer own parents names?“

Harry’s looked away, his shoulders hunched, and, with a pointed look from Mr. Jones the man hastily backtracked. “Not that—I don’t mean ter say—Yeh do know about ‘Ogwarts and all?”

The man next to him – Professor Snape – pinched his nose exasperatedly, speaking for the first time. “If Potter doesn’t even know his parents names, it is highly unlikely that he knows about Hogwarts.” This man’s voice was sharper; also deep but less gravelly - smoother, more eloquent.

Hagrid blushed, ducking his head a little, but he didn’t release Harry’s hand. Professor Snape turned to Mr. Jones. “I believe it would be best if we conducted the next part of the meeting in private.”

“Sorry, sir, but that is against government policy. We are not allowed to leave children alone—“ he abruptly cut himself off, Harry looking on in confusion as his face went slack.

“I think we can make a special allowance for a special case, can’t we?” There was something dark in Mr. Snape’s tone, and Harry watched, his head cocked.

“Yes, yes…” Mr. Jones rose from his seat and walked from the room, almost dreamily. “I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me…” His voice trailed off as he shut the door behind him.

“Yeh shouldn’t do that Snape.” Mr. Hagrid hissed at his companion. “Yeh know wizards aren’t meant ter mess with muggle minds—”

“Nor reveal the existence of our world.” Snape bit back. Harry watched their exchange with confusion.

“What’s a muggle? And what do you mean by wizard?” They both turned to look at him sharply, as if they had momentarily forgotten he was there.

Snape sighed wearily. “You are a wizard, Potter.” Harry gaped. What? “You are a magical person. Everyone else in this house is non-magical, they are muggles.”

“A—a wizard? I—I can’t be a wizard!” Hagrid’s smiled at him warmly; black eyes glittering like beetles, and Harry avoided them, his stomach churning.

Harry knew he was different. He’d known that for almost as long as he could remember. However, he tried to suppress the small spark of hope he felt at the suggestion that his strangeness wasn’t singular; that there were others like him.

“It’s true ‘Arry. Yer a wizard.”

“But I-I’m just normal. I’m just a normal boy.” Harry kept the act going just a little longer, trying to judge whether he could trust these strange men.

Hagrid laughed as Snape snorted, examining a long, very smooth, wooden stick with great interest. “Typical Potter. Just like you’re father. I tell you magic exists and all you think about is yourself—“

“You knew my father too?”

Hagrid cut in quickly, changing the subject. “Tell me, ‘Arry, ‘as anything strange ever ‘appened around you? Anything…not normal?”

Harry was silent for a moment, looking over both of the men sitting opposite him with an assessing gaze as he tried to discern how much he could reveal.

“Once, I—I think I might have teleported,” He spoke cautiously, but Hagrid grinned at him, encouraging him to continue. “Onto the roof of the home. And once I broke my arm – I felt the bone snap and everything, but when I went to the nurse she said there was nothing wrong.” Hagrid continued to nod, to smile, so Harry continued, lowering his voice. “And, sometimes when they find me, I talk to the snakes.” Hagrid spluttered inelegantly, and Snape slowly raised his eyes from the stick of wood in his hands to meet the boy’s eyes. Harry swallowed, suddenly feeling uneasy. “Is that normal, for someone like me?”

The two men stared at him for a moment, before Snape shook his head; his expression carefully schooled into blankness. “No, Potter. That’s highly irregular.” Harry internally kicked himself; he should have been more careful. He had gotten carried away with the revelation that there was a community of special people, just like him. It was becoming increasingly apparent that these people weren’t just like him; they were simply more similar to him than the other people in the care-home. Nevertheless, the little flame of hope wasn’t quite extinguished; if there really was a wizarding world, a community of people with powers, surely there must be some that could speak to snakes? He thought it best not to mention the incident with Frieda.

Feeling more guarded than before, he looked up at the two men with hard eyes. “Prove it to me.”

Snape’s face remained impassive, but Hagrid screwed up his forehead in confusion. “Prove what ‘Arry?”

“Prove it to that what you are saying is true. That magic is real. That you can do it.”

Hagrid’s cheeks flushed, seemingly embarrassed, and he nodded at his companion. “Go on Snape.”

Snape smirked back, still twirling the stick in his long fingers, and Hagrid dropped his eyes to the floor. Reaching into a pocket, the black-haired man pulled out a very battered looking feather, placing it on the table in front of Harry. Strange stick in hand, he swished his hand in a swift, measured movement before tapping the feature twice. For a second nothing happened, and Harry felt the slow burn of humiliation in his tummy as the thought flashed across his mind that he was being had. However, in a very sudden, sharp motion, the feather twisted rapidly, turning so fast he couldn’t follow it before a wing appeared, followed by another, and a tail and a head and immediately there was a very large seagull sitting on the table in front of Harry.

Hagrid chuckled, and Harry looked up to see an expression almost like relief in his eyes. “That was a nice bit ah magic Snape.” What had he been expecting? The giant-man reached a plate-sized hand across the table and cooingly petted the bird, as Snape rolled his eyes in irritation.

“Was that proof enough for you Potter?” The man’s tone was disparaging, but his expression seemed to convey something else – approval? Harry decided he liked Professor Snape a little more than Mr. Hagrid. He nodded back. “Then we shall move on to the real purpose of our visit. You are to be offered a place at the boarding school where I teach and Mr. Hagrid…works,” He directed a sneer at the larger man, who was so consumed in attending to the unresponsive seagull that he didn’t notice. “It is called Hogwarts.”

“A magical school?” Snape nodded sharply, and Harry’s eyes brightened, before darkening a little in suspicion once more as a thought crossed his mind. “How did you know about me?”

“Your parents have had your name down for Hogwarts since before you were born.”

“But then how did you find me?”

Snape gave a long-suffering sigh, rubbing his temples in irritation. “There is a register in the school that is highly sensitive to magic performed within a radius that exclusively contains Britain and Ireland. When a child first performs magic, it records their name and whereabouts. When that child is eleven, the register tracks them and a letter is produced and sent to their home. In your case, the Headmaster decided it would be best for a more…personal approach, but nevertheless that is how he procured your address. Any more questions?” Harry shook his head, trying to absorb all this new information.

“Well, then, we have finished business for today. However, Potter, you shall receive another visit in the next few days. It is necessary for you to go to wizarding London so that you can purchase your school supplies.”

“But Sir, I haven’t any money.” Snape didn’t bother replying as he stood up from his chair, he just snorted, tapping Hagrid’s chair impatiently to get the man’s attention.

“We’re off are we? Well, ‘Arry, it was nice ter meet you!” The giant grasped his hand and gave it a firm shake, but Harry couldn’t help but notice it was a little less enthusiastic than when he first met him. He watched as the two men quickly left the building, Snape striding in front and Hagrid following, the great seagull tucked safely under his even greater arm.

He stayed behind, his mind racing as he processed all this new information. He was a wizard. He was magical.

All those strange incidents over the years hadn’t been so quite strange after all.

“Oh. They’ve gone have they?” Harry looked up to see that Mr. Jones was standing in the doorway, looked more than a little flushed.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Snape says I’ll be getting another visit in a couple of days though.”

Mr. Jones rubbed his forehead. “Oh, yes, very well, I’ll catch them then. You run off and play Harry, I’m just going to go and lie down for a little bit. I’ve got a bit of a headache coming on.”

As the man stumbled back to his office, Harry watched him go in fascination. Snape’s bird trick had been very neat and all, but what he had done to Mr. Jones was a topic of far more interest to the eleven year old. Messed with his mind, isn’t that what Hagrid had said? Certainly, he’d made him do what he was told. He’d controlled him.

One day, Harry promised himself, he would be able to do that too.

* * *

 

_August 6th 1991_

* * *

Three days later, Harry was standing by the door of a grubby looking pub called The Leaky Cauldron, with Professor Snape at his side. Hagrid hadn’t made it. Harry didn’t ask why.

“I should warn you now, Potter, that you are relatively famous in the wizarding world.” Snape’s lip curled into a sneer, before continuing. “It is possible, if people recognize you, that they’ll approach you asking for autographs. Refrain from touching anybody, and avoid conversation if possible. I want to keep this little trip as short as possible.”

Harry stared at him, bewildered. “Why am I famous?”

“If you adhere to the rules I have just laid out, I will tell you at the end of the day.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest – he wanted to know now - but before he could speak Snape reached over, forcibly pushed his hair down over his forehead and thrust him through into the pub. They had walked about five feet when a strange, low voice called out through the gloom.

“Professor Snape!” Harry suppressed a snigger as the man groaned quietly. “Professor, come to the bar! There’s someone here I think you’d like to meet!” As his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the dinghy room, he could see that the speaker was the barman - a hunch-backed man with pallid skin and a head of stringy grey hair.

Snape reluctantly acquiesced, dragging Harry along with him by his arm. As they neared, the barman grinned toothlessly, indicating to the man sitting opposite the bar from him with a dirty hand. “This is Professor Quirrell. He’ll be teaching Defence against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts this year.” Harry scrutinized the man curiously. He was built much like Snape with a long, skinny body, and his face was partially concealed by a mass of floppy light brown hair which hung down across his eyes. As he watched him the man straightened, tucking his hair behind one ear and holding out a hand to Snape. After a moment of reluctant hesitation, Snape took it.

“P-professor, I’ve heard so m-much about you.” The man stuttered.

“Oh?” Snape gave the barman a hard look, whose face went rather white.

“Ha-ha d-don’t put too much of the blame on p-poor Tom here. Actually, I’m an avid reader of P-Potion’s weekly.” Snape raised an eyebrow. “They n-n-never seem to s-stop writing about you! The youngest p-potion’s m-master in over a century…” Harry looked up at his professor in interest, wondering what exactly potions entailed, but Snape’s mouth was half lifted in a sneer. Whether it was due at the man’s rather appalling stammer or what he was actually saying was unclear. “I m-must admit that I’m n-not quite so well d-distinguished myself. I have just finished an apprenticeship in B-Bolton.” Perhaps sensing that Snape had absolutely no interest in what he was saying, he changed the topic. “W-who’s this with you P-Professor?”

“Arnold Bennett, Professor.” Snape lied smoothly, gripping Harry’s arm tightly in warning. “I’m taking him to pick up his supplies.” Harry felt Quirrell’s eyes upon him, and before he could react, the man quickly reached across and shook his hand. Snape didn’t visibly react, but Harry could feel the tension in the fingers gripping his arm.

“Arnold B-B-Bennett, you say?” Snape nodded tersely, and Harry could have sworn that, for just a moment, Quirrell’s eyes darted to his forehead. But the moment was gone, and Quirrell released his hand with a small smile. “I-I’d better let you go then, P-professor. I’ll see you on September f-first, and y-you…Arnold.”

Snape bowed sharply to both Tom the barman and Professor Quirrell, and before Harry knew it, he had tugged him away through the back door and out into the bright daylight of a small courtyard. As the man began to briskly trace the brick wall with his wand, Harry looked up at him inquisitively.

“So, will professor Quirrell be teaching me next year sir?”

“Obviously.”

“What’s Defence against the Dark Arts, sir? And Potions?”

Snape sighed wearily, tapping the bricks in the courtyard wall in a strangely deliberate pattern. “They are both subjects, Potter, that you will study when you are at Hogwarts.” Harry frowned at the man’s dodging of his questions, but before he could say anything something happened which made him jump back in shock - one of the bricks had just wriggled! Suddenly, a small hole appeared, growing wider and wider until suddenly a doorway appeared, leading onto a winding, cobbled street.

“This, Potter, is Diagon Alley.”

Harry looked around him with amazement, trying his best to drink everything in. Brightly coloured shops lined the street, which was thick with people dressed in cloaks and tall, pointed hats. The courtyard had been silent, but now the air was filled with shouts and laughter and conversation. He could see cauldrons and broomsticks and stalls stacked with dubious looking ingredients, and everywhere the likes of things he’d never seen before. Overwhelmed, he began to wander over to a huge shop filled with strange articles of clothing, only to be yanked back harshly by the scruff of his neck.

“Not so fast Potter. It may have surpassed your notice, but you cannot buy anything until you have some money.”

Harry looked up at him in confusion. “But sir, last time we met I told you, I don’t have any money.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Trust me Potter, there is no cause for concern on that point. We just need to get to the bank.” With that the man began to lead him along the street, Harry letting himself be tugged along as he turned his head from left to right taking in this strange new world. His world.

Before long, they arrived at the largest building on the street; a great stone construction with a bone white façade and large, burnished bronze doors. Harry stared, wide eyed at the strange, bearded creature next to the door, only for Snape to slap him on the back of the head. “I will only tell you once Potter, so take heed, do not stare at the Goblins. They are the last creatures you want to make an enemy of.” Harry looked away immediately, letting Snape drag him through the doors into a great marble room with a great crystal chandelier bigger than any Harry had ever seen.

Arriving before a sharply dressed goblin with a pair of glasses perched on his abnormally large nose, Snape passed a small gold key across to it.

“Ah. I take it you wish to enter Mr. Potter’s vault?” With an affirming nod from Snape the Goblin snapped his fingers, and another arrived beside him. “Griphook, take Mr. Potter and Professor Snape down to vault 397.” Griphook gave his colleague a quick bow before leading the duo out of the marble chamber into a dark passage, lit by a series of flaming torches. They soon reached an open track, and the goblin ushered them into an empty cart.

“Hold on tight Potter. It’d be a pity to lose you on the way down.”

Harry’s eyes widened, he clung the side of the car with a vice-like grip, and in a fraction of a second they were rocketing into the ground, Harry’s hair flying around his face, his knuckles white as he grasped the side of the cart with all his might. They flew around a corner and Harry couldn’t contain a small yelp as he was thrown sideways, before they plunged down into a dark hole. Harry felt his lips go dry as the moisture was blown off them, and his eyes stung with dust and tears. A few minutes later the cart came to a stop, and he couldn’t help but sigh in relief. Looking across at Professor Snape, he observed with some irritation that the man seemed completely unaffected; his robes were unruffled and his black hair was still perfectly combed into two sheer curtains on either side of his sallow face.

Harry stepped out of the cart after his teacher: Griphook was already unlocking the door. It swung open heavily with a billow of dangerous looking green smoke, and Harry gasped as he caught sight of what was inside. Piles and stacks and mounds of money: gold and silver and bronze. He had never seen such treasure. He watched with fascination as Snape pulled out a small bag and began to fill it with coins. “The gold ones, Potter, are Galleons; the silver ones are Sickles and the bronze are called Knuts.” Harry stored away this useful information. “This vault contains the money left to you by your parents; most of it is the remainder of the Potter fortune. There is another vault – the Potter family vault – but you will not gain access to that until you are sixteen, and it mainly consists of valuable artifacts and heirlooms rather than money. So spend this wisely. It may look like an infinite resource, but trust me, it is not.”

*

Twenty minutes later, and Harry was standing in a shop called Ollivanders whilst Snape ran some errands. It was finally time to buy his wand. He looked around him with avid interest at the small, rectangular boxes that lined the walls, trying to contain his excitement at the idea he would be getting his very own stick – the instrument that would allow him to control his magic.

“Good afternoon.” Harry jumped as a soft voice rang through the shop. Slowly a man emerged from the gloom that consumed the back of the stacks of boxes. He was skinny and pale, and his whole face seemed to be taken up by a pair of large, glassy eyes that shone like luminous moons. “Ah, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon, Harry Potter.” Harry’s eyes narrowed as the man offered him a gentle smile.

“How do you know my name?” The man didn’t answer, just watching him with those pale, searching eyes.

“You have your mothers eyes. It’s seems like only yesterday she was in here, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches, willow, swishy. Ideal for charm work.” Harry shifted uncomfortably – this man set him on edge. “ Your father’s wand was quite different – 11 inches of pliable mahogany. Much more suited to transfiguration.” The strange man was now standing less than a foot away from him, his pale eyes boring down into Harry’s. The boy bit back the instinct the step back, instead raising his chin defiantly.

Slowly, the man raised a long bony finger, to press a cold finger against his scar. Harry felt quite violated, but still refused to give into the urge to shrink away.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the very wand which did this, Mr. Potter. Thirteen and a half inches of yew. Beautifully made, and so powerful. Perhaps the most powerful I’ve ever sold. In the wrong hands...” The strange pale man trailed off, dropping his finger.

“I wonder, Mr. Potter, which wand will choose you.” And with that the man melted back into the shadows of the wand stacks, with an air of aloof mystery.

Harry rubbed his forehead grumpily, unhappy at having been touched by a stranger. However, he was intrigued by the small slip of information he’d given him about his past. Somehow, his scar and his fame and a wand that this man had once sold were all related, and he was determined to find out why.

The man re-emerged, a large tape measure gripped in his hand. “You wand arm?”

“…I’m right handed—”

“Extend it then.” Harry did as he was told, and the man was suddenly a flurry of movement around him, measuring his arm length and height and head-size and waist. “Every Ollivander wand, Mr. Potter, has a powerful and rare core that acts as a channel for your magic. Here we use unicorn hair, dragon heartstring and phoenix feathers. And just as not every unicorn and dragon and phoenix is quite the same, no two wands are quite the same. Know, Mr. Potter: no wand will ever work as well for you as the one you will purchase today. There we are!” He dropped the tape measure onto the table, and immediately rushed off to rifle through his shelves.

Harry watched fervently, his heart beating fast. “Ah.” A box was tugged out of a precarious pile, “Perhaps this. Beech wood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Flexible.” In a flash the man was back in front of him, pushing a wand into his hand. “Go on, give it a wave—No! No.” In another moment Ollivander had seized the wand back and was shoving it back into its box on the shelf.

‘Maple wood and Phoenix feather. Seven inches. Unusually whippy.” Another wand was thrust at him and Harry waved it for a second, before that too was snatched back and boxed away. Indeed, seven wands came and passed without success, before Ollivander had a thought. Looking at Harry speculatively, he hummed. “I wonder…”

He wandered to the back of the shop before returning with a long box. Harry noted with some interest how much more carefully he treated this wand, removing it from its box with great delicacy. “Try this, Mr. Potter. Holly and Phoenix feather, eleven inches, supple.”

Harry took the wand. An unfamiliar but comforting warmth spread through his fingers, and almost instinctively he raised it above his head, swishing it down through dusty air and producing a burst of glittering golden sparks. Ollivander grinned widely. “Well done, Mr. Potter.” His moony eyes gleamed. “And how very, very curious.”

“Curious, sir?”

Ollivander shot the young boy a searching stare. “The phoenix from which the feather in that wand came has only ever given one other feather. It is very curious that you should be destined for this wand, when its brother gave you that scar.”

Harry stared back, eyes wide.

“Yew. Thirteen inches. The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. I think we can expect great things from you. After all, you-know-who did great things—terrible, yes, but great.”

*

“Professor, did you know my parents?”

“No.”

“Who is you-know-who?”

Snape glared at him across the table, shaking his newspaper pointedly. “It is rude to interrupt others, Potter, when they are otherwise occupied. Finish your soup.”

Harry glowered, pushing his dumplings around in his bowl. After Snape had picked him up from Ollivanders, they had gone to pick up the rest of his supplies, and he was now equipped with cauldrons, books and robes. Harry had wanted a pet too, but Snape had been swift to remind him that no pets were allowed in the care-home. He stabbed a dumpling angrily. Stupid muggles.

“Professor, please tell me?”

Snape didn’t immediately reply, but after a few minutes he folded up his paper neatly and drew his mug of coffee close. “What have you got to offer me in return Potter?”

“You did say if I followed your rules you’d tell me about why I’m famous—“

“Who says your fame is in any way related to you-know-who?”

“You covered my scar before we entered the pub so people wouldn’t recognise me, so obviously my scar is related to my fame. And then, when I was in Ollivander’s—“

“Mr. Ollivander, do learn to address your betters properly.”

“—Mr. Ollivanders shop, he touched my scar and told me he’d sold the wand that gave it to me, and it had belonged to someone called you-know-who.”

Snape looked at him appraisingly. “Not bad Potter. Surprisingly perceptive for someone with your genes.” Harry stopped himself demanding what he meant by that, and smiled at his professor hopefully instead. “Anyway, your argument is void because you did break the rules. You let Ollivander touch you—“

“Mr. Ollivander, sir.” Snape snarled at him and Harry was forced to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent a snigger escaping.

“You let Ollivander touch you, and I specifically stated you were not to let allow any contact with strangers. In fact, you also shook hands with Quirrell in the pub. So, Potter, you failed to fulfill the terms of our agreement and thus I am not bound by it.”

“But sir—“

“If you want me to tell you anything you’re going to have to offer something else of some value to me.” Snape smirked at him, taking a long sip from his coffee.

“You can have the rest of my soup?” Snape picked up his paper. Seeing that he wasn’t to get any further response Harry chewed his lip. What on earth could Snape possibly want from him?

“I’ll read my potions book before class begins?”

Snape snorted. “If you have any wisdom Potter, which I highly suspect you don’t, you will read all of your schoolbooks before you arrive. As the famous boy-who-lived,” his smirk widened as Harry perked up at that little tidbit of information, “there will be certain expectations placed upon you. Anyhow, I don’t really care whether you pass my class with flying colours or fail it: your academic attainment is your concern, not mine.” He went back to his paper.

Harry blew a stray piece of hair out of his eye, resting his chin on his hand. “I’ll buy you something?”

“Please, Potter, I’m no pauper.” Snape sounded a bit offended, and it was Harry’s turn to smirk this time.

“Well, then I suppose I’ll just have to ask someone else. Perhaps that woman over there, she looks friendly—“

Snape looked suddenly livid. “Don’t you dare, Potter. You have no idea of the commotion you will cause if people realise exactly who they are sitting in the vicinity of.”

“Well, professor, you haven’t really left me with much of a choice.”

Snape glared at him for a moment, before dropping his paper down on the table. “I will tell you what you want to know, Potter, on the condition that you do actually read your potions book before you arrive at Hogwarts. Just to let you know, I always give a little quiz to the first years on their first day, and I’ll be making you don’t slip under my radar.” The last words were hissed, and Harry gulped. The professor took out his wand, casting a quick spell.

“What are you doing, sir?” Snape glowered at him.

“I am casting the muffliato charm, Potter, to prevent anyone else overhearing our conversation—“

“Can you teach me?”

Snape sneered at him. “Muffliato is a third year spell Potter, You probably wouldn’t even manage the wand movement.”

Harry flushed, narrowing his eyes. He promised to himself that he would figure out how to cast muffliato, and then do so pointedly in Snape’s presence as soon as he was back at school. Tucking his wand back into his robe, Snape took a sip of coffee before beginning.

“Thirty years ago, when I myself was no more than an infant,” Harry smirked at the thought of Snape as a baby, “a very dark wizard rose to prominence. As many feared him so much they could not speak his name, he became widely known as You-Know-Who.” Harry snorted at this, but was cowed by a serious look from his professor, whose black eyes had darkened impossibly. “Don’t sneer at fear you have never known, Potter. The power of the Dark Lord is beyond your pitifully limited imagination. His magic was something no one had ever seen the likes of – dark; all-consuming; addictive in its strength.” Harry swallowed, suddenly reminded of Ollivanders words. “He roused a group of followers who came to be known as Death Eaters, who terrorized the wizarding population. He sought to establish a new order; a huge shift in our magical society which you will have to research, Potter, as I do not have the time nor the patience to explain it to you now. For almost twenty years he fought with the ministry, both sides decimating those who opposed them. If it gives you any idea of the scale of this war, it will likely take a century for the wizarding population to return to its original size.”

Harry gaped in shock. “How could people let that happen?”

“As you will no doubt soon discover, Potter, people in the magical world have much stronger feelings about politics than most muggles do. I’ve met few not willing to die for their beliefs, and I’ll tell you now, most would have no qualms about sacrificing others to achieve their goals either. The Death Eaters, whilst more brutal than most, were not exceptional in that respect.”

Harry swallowed, mind racing.

“By the time you were born, in 1980, the Dark Lord was reaching the peak of his power. Many of the people who opposed him were in hiding, as were you and your parents.”

Harry leaned forward, paying rapt attention, hungry for more information.

“In the Halloween of 1981, your parents were betrayed by their friend, and your godfather, Sirius Black.” Snape’s sneer was more venomous than normal. “Black was a vicious, honour-less man whose only interest was himself; he killed thirteen people in a muggle street the following day. He gleefully revealed the location of their hideout to the Dark Lord, who came for you. He killed your parents,” Snape looked away at this. “And then he tried to kill you.”

Harry swallowed, and Snape took another sip of coffee, his smirk returning.

“Except, Potter, he failed, and he disappeared, and all you were left with is that ugly scar.”

“I-I defeated him?”

Snape smirked at him condescendingly. “Don’t tell me, Potter, that you really think a baby could defeat the man that I have just described to you?”

Harry looked at the floor.

“No, Potter, you did not defeat him, although you may meet people who tell you so.”

“But, he was defeated? He’s dead?”

Snape gave him a long, discerning look, before he picked up his paper once more. “Finish your soup.”


	3. I.iii To Hogwarts

* * *

  _September 1 st 1991_

* * *

 Harry had been disappointed to discover, as he stood waiting for his lift to Kings Cross station on his first day at school, that Snape was not going to be accompanying him. Instead the great man-giant had reappeared, giving him a greeting slap on the back that took his breath away.

 At least, he thought, as they sped up the A3 into London, he got to ride a motorbike.

 Trees whipped past, shifting into the low buildings of suburban London and eventually into the mixture of grand Victorian houses and modern skyscrapers that dominated Battersea.

 “I was sorry ter miss your first visit ter Diagon Alley, ‘Arry.” Hagrid shouted over his shoulder. “I’m sure Professor Snape told you, but I ‘ad ter go away on ‘Ogwarts business.” Harry didn’t bother responding, his eyes fixed on the glittering water of the Thames as they crossed over Chelsea Bridge.

 Before long they were pulling up outside Kings Cross Station, and Hagrid was soon unshrinking Harry’s luggage with a garishly pink umbrella. “I’d appreciate it, ‘Arry, if you didn’t tell anyone about this. I’m not supposed ter be doing magic yeh see.” Harry nodded, his attention elsewhere. Snape had told him most wizards were awful at blending with muggles, and you could spot them from a mile away. Looking around, it was clear wizards were either not so bad at dressing as muggles as Snape had made out, or there simply weren’t any about. He let out a disappointed huff of air, ruffling his eye-length fringe.

 “Well, ‘Arry, I’m afraid I can’t come in with yeh. I’ve got a meeting with a man in the Leaky Cauldron in ten minutes, but here’s yer ticket. I’m sure you’ll find yer way.” Harry took the ticket without looking up, examining it carefully. Platform 9 ¾ ? Surely that couldn’t be right! He looked up to ask Hagrid only to discover the man had already disappeared.

 Feeling exasperated, and a little more worried than he’d care to admit, he flattened his hair over his forehead and made his way into the station, desperately hoping he’d be able to find some wizards to help him. He didn’t bother asking a station guard, having enough life-experience to know he’d just be laughed off. Platform nine and three quarters indeed.

 “—packed with muggles, of course—“

 Harry swung round. The speaker was a plump woman who appeared to be in her early thirties, accompanied by two red headed children. Feeling hopeful, he dragged his trunk off after them, only to stop a safe distance away as they stopped between the barriers of platforms nine and ten.

 “Mum, can’t _I_ go?”

 “You know you’re not old enough yet Ginny. Next year. All right, Ron, off you go. Try to find the others – they must have already gone on ahead.” The boy pushed his trolley forward, only – to Harry’s shock - hurtle himself at the wall. However, instead of the noisy crash Harry had been expecting, he simply disappeared. Harry’s eyes narrowed – where had he gone? Seeing the plump woman was about to follow her son he ran forward to get her attention.

 “Excuse me!”

 The woman’s head whipped around over her shoulder, before smiling down at him in a motherly manner. “Hello dear, what’s your name?”

 Harry hesitated for a moment, remembering Snape’s words about his fame. “Arnold Bennett.”

  "Ah.” The woman suddenly seemed a little less warm, and Harry mentally swallowed – had he done the wrong thing? “Hogwarts too?”

 He nodded quickly. “Yes, I just wanted to ask – I’m not sure how to get onto the platform.”

 “All you have to do dear is walk straight at that barrier without stopping. If you’re nervous, you’d best do it at a bit of a run.” And with that the woman trotted off through the barrier, the youngest child perched on her luggage trolley, peering back at him curiously.

 Gritting his teeth, Harry followed, speeding up as he felt himself getting nervous at the barrier’s ever-closer proximity. Five feet; two feet; a foot—A huge scarlet train was in front of him, pumping a stream of white smoke and with _Hogwarts Express_ written across its side in gold lettering. _He was through_.

 Allowing a triumphant grin to spread across his face at his success, he began to tug his case down the platform. There were animals everywhere, screeching and hooting as students hugged their family’s goodbye, and friends dove through crowds to greet each other. Reaching the third carriage, Harry began to try and heave his trunk in, without much success.

 “Need a hand?” Harry looked up to see a burly boy in black robes towering over him, giving him a toothy grin. Feeling a little wary of this stranger, but knowing he really did need help, Harry acquiesced.

 “Thanks.” The older boy lifted the trunk onto the train effortlessly, before looking back over him.

 “The name’s Flint. Marcus Flint. And you?”

 Harry hesitated for a moment, before replying. “Harry. Harry Potter.” He noticed a little uneasily how the other boy’s eyes flashed, before his grin widened.

 “Remember, Potter. You owe me one.” The older boy swung around and disappeared back off onto the platform. Heart thumping a little, and a little disturbed, Harry wandered down the carriage, relieved to find an empty compartment at the back.

 He couldn’t contain a groan as he realised the luggage rack was several feet above his head, and he had no hope of reaching it. Reaching for his wand, he decided to try one of the spells he’d read about _._ He had - heeding Snape’s advice - read some of his textbooks, although he hadn’t bothered with  _Hogwarts: A History_. He had also admittedly skimmed the last few chapters of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi._ There were only so many ‘Campanula’s’ and ‘Verbascum’s’ a boy could take.

 “Wingardium Leviosa.” He frowned nothing happened. What had he done wrong? Ah! Of course – pronunciation: “Wing _ar_ dium Levi _o_ sa.” This time the trunk began to rise from the ground, and Harry could have laughed as he directed it onto the luggage rack neatly with his wand. It had been a pain in the arse as it had been to slog through eight heavy-duty textbooks in just four weeks, and he was glad that it was proving to be useful.

 Just as he settled down next to the window, the compartment door banging open startled him.

 “And who are you?” A blonde boy with a pale pointed face was standing in the doorway, flanked on either side by two much bulkier teens. When Harry didn’t reply, his eyes narrowed. “Everyone knows the third carriage is reserved for Slytherins. This is our compartment.”

 Harry wrinkled his nose. “What’s a Slytherin?”

 “Dear god.” A look of horror spread across the blonde boy’s face. “Tell me you aren’t a mudblood.”

 “A _what_?”

 The other boy was beginning to look panicked. “Your name. What is it?”

 Knowing there was no point in lying, and remembering the redheaded woman’s earlier lukewarm response to him, he sighed wearily. “Harry. Harry Potter.”

 The blonde boys eyes widened, before his posture relaxed and a cat-like grin spread across his small face. “Oh?” He sprawled languidly across the seat opposite Harry, before turning to his cronies. “Crabbe, Goyle, man the door.” Harry watched with interest as they obeyed, and if the blonde boy’s widening grin was anything to go by, he noticed. “I’m Draco. The Malfoy heir.”

 Harry looked at him blankly, and Draco’s smile dropped a little. “You really don’t know anything at all, do you?”

 Harry glowered, and the blonde boy cocked his head.

 “If you’d like, _Harry_ , I could help you find your way around, so to speak.”

 Harry’s face conveyed his suspicion. “You weren’t interested in me until you learned my name. If it had been Harry Smith you wouldn’t be interested. Why should I trust you?”

 Draco sighed, examining his nails. “The fact remains, _Harry_ , that your name is Harry Potter and not Harry Smith.” The blonde boy looked at him in an assessing manner for a moment, before leaning forward. “I’m getting the impression you’re someone who appreciates bluntness, so I’ll lay it out clearly for you. You’re famous. And supposedly very powerful. Being friends with you makes me look good. From what you’ve said so far, it’s pretty clear you know virtually nothing about our world—“

 “I’ve read the textbooks!” Harry said indignantly, but Draco only rolled his eyes.

 “You don’t even know what Slytherin is, Potter. You may know a spell or two but it’s pretty clear you’ve no idea what you’re _really_ letting yourself in for - _socially_. Being friends with me means that you learn quickly. Trust me, Potter, there’s no one on this train who knows more about the wizarding world than me,” Although Harry was listening intently, he had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes at the other boy’s arrogance. “So, from where I’m looking, a friendship of sorts can only be mutually beneficial.” Draco leaned back again, smirking at him as he crossed his arms.

 As much as Harry wasn’t sure he liked this boy, and as weird as it felt to be negotiating friendship, the memory of his encounter with Flint forced him to concede Draco did have a point. He hadn’t even reached the school yet, and he’d already incurred some sort of dubious debt.

 “So, Potter?” The blonde boy extended his hand, and whilst it was done with an arrogant sort of swagger than made Harry want to refuse, he could sense a slight feeling of vulnerability about the motion. It was clear that, if he refused, it would be taken as a personal affront. After a moment of reluctant hesitation, he took it.

 Malfoy looked almost surprised, before his smirk seemed to shift into something of a slightly more genuine smile. “Right choice, Potter.”

 Feeling a little reassured, Harry ventured something of a smile back.

 The train started to move, but before Harry could start to ask about Hogwarts the compartment door swung open one more, and one of the louts who’d been flanking Draco earlier stuck his head in. “It’s Zabini and Nott. Should I let them in?” Draco nodded, waving his hand offhandedly, and the door was pushed back. The first boy who entered was tall and pale, with a shock of dark brown hair rather like Harry’s, and a long, thin nose. A slightly shorter, olive-skinned boy followed, whose neatly combed black hair framed an uncommonly attractive face.

 “Nott, Zabini. _This_ is Harry Potter.” Draco’s chest puffed out a little proudly when he said his name, and Harry bit his lip to prevent a smile. The other boys shot him a slightly disbelieving look, and to avoid any further conversation concerning his identity Harry pushed his hair back from his forehead to reveal his scar. He noted the slightly impressed looks on their faces.

 “Who would have thought? Harry Potter in the Slytherin carriage!” The smaller boy grinned, and Harry didn’t bother to mention he hadn’t actually known some of the compartments were ‘reserved’. “I’m Blaise Zabini.” The boy held out his hand, and Harry shook it firmly.

 “I’m Theodore, Theodore Nott, but I prefer just Theo.” The taller boy spoke more seriously than the first, and didn’t offer his hand, instead sitting down next to Draco. Blaise flopped down next to Harry less reservedly, and a little closer than Harry felt completely comfortable with.

 “So, Harry, am I to take it that you’re hoping for Slytherin?” Blaise’s smile was charming, and, still having no idea what Slytherin was, Harry hesitated to reply.

 Draco sighed, eyeing Blaise with a superior eye. “ _Harry”_ \- Draco emphasized his use of Harry-s first name - “doesn’t know about the houses, yet.” Blaise’s eyes widened a little, before he grinned slyly.

 “I suppose you’ve offered to tell him?”

 Malfoy smirked back. “Of course. As the Malfoy heir my knowledge is superior to all—“ 

“And not at all partisan.” Blaise winked at Harry, who smiled back, trying to conceal the embarrassing fact that he had no idea what ‘partisan’ meant. Draco glowered.

 In both an effort to break the slightly tense silence and actually find out what Slytherin was, Harry finally spoke up. “So, Slytherin is a school house?”

 Draco raised his chin, and Harry had the feeling he was about to receive a very long lecture. “Slytherin is not just _a_ school house, Potter, it’s a _philosophy_ …”

 

*

 

“I would like to welcome you all to Hogwarts.”

 The first years, having been led from the train to the school by Hagrid, were crowded in the entrance chamber of the school, in front of a tall, black haired witch with a lightly lined, stern face.

 “I am Professor McGonagall, the head of Gryffindor House.”

 Harry noticed Draco’s top lip lift into a sneer. Harry couldn’t help but note she didn’t exactly fit the description of Gryffindors that had been given to him on the train. She was definitely not brawny, nor did she seem very brash. Clearly the knowledge his new ‘friends’ had imparted was to be taken with a pinch of salt.

 “The start-of term banquet will begin shortly. However before you join your fellow pupils at the house tables, you must be sorted. For the duration of education at Hogwarts, your house will be your home. You will eat with your housemates; sleep with your housemates-“ there were a couple of boyish giggles at that, which the woman quieted with a hard stare, “-and have classes with your housemates. Throughout the year your achievements will win you points for your house, but any misbehaviour will lose them. At the end of the year the house with the greatest number of points will receive the honour of winning the house cup.” She surveyed the students; her eyes hovering over a couple of the more scruffily dressed. “I suggest you all do your best to smarten yourselves up, and then we shall proceed into the hall.”

 There was a small flurry of movement as the students groomed themselves, dusting off robes and neatening hair. Harry stood next to Draco, a little bored. He’d preened and prepped on the train, along with his new companions, and had no need to neaten himself up further. He overheard the red haired boy he’d seen earlier exclaim something about a troll, and sensed Draco snort condescendingly next to him.

 “Right, now, all of you form an orderly line, in pairs.” Standing next to Draco, with Crabbe and Goyle behind him and Nott and Zabini in front, Harry entered the great hall of his new home for the first time. His new friends had informed him about the wonders of the hall, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight itself - thousands of candles hung in the open air over four long tables where the older students were sitting, lighting the hundreds of faces turned towards them like lanterns. There were silvery creatures that looked like ghosts hovering amongst the students, and most magnificently of all, when he looked up, he saw no ceiling but a velvety black night sky, littered with glittering stars.

 They proceeded up to stand before the heads table, where the teachers sat in a long row, facing the room: he spotted both Quirrell and Snape. Professor McGonagall placed a small stool in the centre of the raised platform where the teachers sat, which had an old and battered looking hat perched on top of it.

 For a short moment, the hall was silent, as Harry waited for what he knew the strange hat would do next. And, its brim opening wide, it did:

 

_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat then me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There's nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can't see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve and chivalry,_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true,_

_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_If you've a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin,_

_Where you'll meet your real friends,_

_Those cunning folk use any means,_

_To achieve their ends._

_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

_And don't get in a flap!_

_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_

_For I’m a Thinking Cap."_

The hall burst into applause and the hat fell silent. Professor McGonagall stepped forward once more with a small smile on her tight face, and looking down at a long list in her hand, started to read:

“Abbott, Hannah.”

 A slightly pudgy girl with a pair of blonde pigtails shuffled forward, and so the sorting began. Harry watched as his fellow first years were shipped off to different houses one by one, trying to crush the curls of nervousness in his belly. So far, Hufflepuff seemed to be the most common house, followed by Ravenclaw. The Slytherin numbers were low, although not quite so low as Gryffindor. He watched as Draco strutted over to the Slytherin table with a smirk, the hat having barely touched his head. Nott soon joined him, and before Harry knew it his name had been called. Whispers erupted across the hall.

 “Did she just say Potter?”

 “ _The_ Harry Potter? Mummy _said_ he was coming this year—”

 “He’s tiny!”

 The hat dropped was dropped onto his head, and it slipped down to cover his eyes. After a second, a small voice began to croon into his ear. “Hmm. You’re a difficult one. _Very_ difficult. Plenty of courage, and an intelligent mind, not to mention a desire to prove your worth. There’s magical talent too, my goodness yes. Lucky boy. Ah, and a rather overpowering urge to find a place to call your own, that _does_ make things interesting…Mmmmnnn, boy, you’ve not had a very pleasant childhood…still, you haven’t forgot that pretty ring though have you?” Harry heard a tinkling laugh in his ear, and grimaced. “So where to put you, Harry Potter? Really you could go anywhere…no—I know. It seems to me that you’ll do best in SLYTHERIN!” The last word was shouted loudly to the whole hall, incurring a shocked silence. However, as Professor McGonagall lifted the hat from his head, the other students seemed to gather themselves and the Slytherin table broke out into applause, led by a more than enthusiastic Draco Malfoy. Nevertheless, as he trotted over to join his friends from the train he couldn’t help but notice the many shocked, occasionally slack-mouthed looks from the other pupils. Interesting. Harry Potter was obviously not expected to be a Slytherin.

 As he sat down next to Draco, he caught the eye of the man sitting at the centre of the head table, in a rather gaudy golden chair. This must be the Headmaster – Albus Dumbledore. He looked very old, with a long, wispy white beard that disappeared under the table, and a pair of half-moon glasses perched upon the end of his nose. The man gave him a small smile, before quickly turning back to the sorting, which came to an end as Blaise was sorted into Slytherin.

 Professor McGonagall briskly cleared away the stool and hat, took the seat to the left of Dumbledore, who then rose to address the hall, spreading his arms wide: “Welcome, welcome! Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! Before we begin our feast, I would like to say a few words – Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!” The man sat back down, and laughter bubbled across the hall. Harry wrinkled his nose, and Theo looked thoroughly unimpressed.

 "Ridiculous.” The boy went back to reading a thick book he had produced from somewhere, only for Blaise to thump him on the arm.

 “It’s the welcoming feast Theo _dore_. Save your books for tomorrow.” Theo glared at his friend, but he did reluctantly comply.

 With a pop, the table was suddenly heaving with food, and Harry felt his tummy rumble its approval. He had eaten a few sticks of liquorice on the train, but that had been hours ago, and suddenly he felt ravenously hungry. He piled a substantial amount of roast beef, yorkshire pudding and steamed vegetables onto his plate, and dug in.

 “So, Harry Potter. Must be strange to be a Slytherin.” Harry looked up to see a girl with an upturned nose and a neat, glossy black bob addressing him.

 Swallowing his mouthful of food, he replied “Not particularly,” and took a swig of the strange sweet juice in his goblet that tasted oddly like pumpkin. 

“Everyone knows the Potters are Gryffindors, and notoriously light—”

 “Then everyone knows more about them than I do.” He grinned at her, and was pleased when, after a moment, she gave a small smile back, if a little haughtily. She reminded him a little of Draco.

 “I’m Pansy Parkinson. This is Daphne Greengrass,” she gestured to a pretty blonde girl sitting next to her, “Matilda Avery,” a girl with a large nose and a mass of dark red hair nodded at him, “Hestia and Flora Carrow,” Pansy pointed to two identical twins with ponytails, “And that’s Tracey Davis.” She spoke the last girl’s name a little more coldly, but Harry supposed she was lucky to even be introduced; there was another quite overweight girl on the end who clearly didn’t merit even that, sitting next to an unknown boy. It was unspoken, but it was obvious those two didn’t have names that qualified them as at all interesting. As the others had told him on the train, such people would have to prove themselves before being accepted by the rest.

 

*

 

An hour later and the small group of Slytherin First Years had been led by their head of house, which Harry had been delighted to discover was Professor Snape, through a seemingly unending series of winding corridors down into the dark dungeons of the school. They had stopped outside what appeared to be a stone-filled archway.

 “First of all, congratulations. You have all been sorted into Slytherin.” Snape didn’t smile, but to the first years standing before him his gaze felt approving. “To some of you, I am sure it is no less than you were expecting,” Harry saw Blaise nudging Draco out of the corner of his eye, “For some of you, perhaps it comes as something more of a surprise,” His gaze drifted over Harry for a moment, before landing on the two students who Harry had not yet been introduced to, standing together to the edge of the group. “However, I assure you all, that, if you can prove your worth,” His gaze rested meaningfully of those same two students, “there is a home for you in Slytherin. We look after those who are _truly_ our own.”

 With a flourish of his cloak, he turned to gesture to the wall behind him with a long fingered hand, “Some of the greatest wizards to have ever lived had passed through this archway. I advise you all to learn and respect the rich history of the house you have been chosen for. I can promise you all, that there will be consequences for those who don’t.” His face darkened, and the air around them seemed to freeze, the students shivering, before the temperature returned to normal. Harry felt himself go a little breathless at this display of blatantly potent magic, his eyes bright.

 “As your head of house, I will be responsible for your welfare during your time at Hogwarts. If you have any questions, you will come to me. If you have any problems, you will come to me. I will not look favourably upon those who take any issues, particularly those concerning the house, elsewhere. For those of you less familiar with the history of the Hogwarts Houses, it is important that you understand the prejudices held against Slytherin, and thus the necessity to operate…self-sufficiently.” His eyes skimmed over the pupils, conveying the seriousness of his words.

 “As I am sure you are all tired, I will leave you the care of your prefects: Adrian Pucey and Winifred Tugwood. I trust you will all get a good night’s sleep, so as to give the very best impression in your first lessons tomorrow.” At this a tall, sharp looking boy with brown hair stepped forward from behind them, followed by a pretty girl with a long blonde plait. A meaningful look passed between the three, and then, with a last nod, Snape vanished around the corner, his black robes fluttering behind him.

 “Good Evening, and welcome to our house.” Winifred spoke with a cold, clear voice, Adrian leaning languidly against the arch behind her. “The Slytherin common room and dormitories lie behind this wall: to enter them you need a password. Remember it.” They both turned to face the wall, and this time Adrian spoke, lowly and sibilantly.

 “ _Potestas_.”

 Harry watches, fascinated, as the stones began to fold away from the centre, revealing a dark, cold passage. It was reminiscent of his entrance into Diagon alley – except that, here, the smirking prefects and the darkness of the passage conveyed a general sense of uncomfortable foreboding.

Led by Pucey and Tugwood, the first years wandered down into the gloom.


	4. I.iv Christmas with the Malfoys

* * *

  A/N - Thank you for all your kind comments! The updates on this might be a bit slow - I'm abroad this summer and quite busy, but bear with and it will come. There's a bit of a time jump in this chapter, but I really want to get things moving at a pace - this is the fourth of about seven "prologue" type chapters, set across Harry's first year, which are essential matter for the plot.

 

* * *

December 15th 1991

* * *

 

"Mummy!" Harry looked on as Draco rushed forward, and threw his arms around a pale, thin woman draped in silky, pastel-blue robes. Harry suppressed a smile - Draco would never admit it, but he had definitely been homesick throughout their first term at Hogwarts. All he ever talked about was blood, his parents, and Malfoy Manor.

The past four months had flown by in a colourful blur of lessons, people, and magic - the best weeks, so far, of Harry's life. He had brewed potions, he had transfigured pins into rabbits, he had flown in the air on a broomstick. Not only that, but, for the first time in his life, Harry had friends. The other Slytherin boys had been his constant companions, and he took great pleasure in having company - with the exception, of course, of Crabbe and Goyle. Hogwarts was beyond anything he could have imagined. It already felt like more of a home than the orphanage ever had - he had been planning on spending the holiday in the castle, but Draco, horrified by the concept of anyone spending a holiday at school, had insisted he come home with him.

"This is my best friend, Harry Potter." Mrs Malfoy turned to look at Harry, acknowledging him with a small nod of her perfectly coiffed, white-blonde head.

"Mrs Malfoy." Harry bowed deeply, and Draco nodded at him from behind his mother's back. "Thank you for inviting me to spend Christmas at your home."

With a small smile that didn't quite reach her cold eyes, Mrs Malfoy finally spoke: "It will be a pleasure to have you Mr. Potter, I'm sure."

* * *

From the station they had apparated into a small building – the gatehouse, Draco told Harry – and then had climbed into a carriage drawn by four skeletal, horse-like creatures, whose black coats and leathery wings were steaming in the snow.

The grey turrets of Malfoy Manor peeked over the tree line as they drew up the five mile-long drive until, after turning a corner, it lay directly before them, rising imposingly from its snow-covered surroundings, a picture of twisting towers and glinting windows. Harry did his best not to stare, trying to focus instead on the bright blue peacocks strutting across the snow-covered lawns, and the strange beasts pulling the carriage.

A cluster of house-elves wearing garments in the Malfoy colours – lilac and royal blue - were waiting to meet them at the doors to the manor, where the driveway swept around in a loop. An especially ancient one opened the carriage door, and Harry and the Malfoys stepped out between the bowing and curtseying elves. The trio proceeded through the grand doors into an enormous foyer, decked in marble and glass.

However, something other than the opulent décor immediately caught Harry's attention – there was a feeling here, an atmosphere that he couldn't place. There was a thrum of magic in the air, as there was at Hogwarts, but this was different. Darker, almost bitter. It almost reminded him of coffee: acrid and rich.

"Draco, take Mr. Potter to his room. He will be sleeping in the chamber directly opposite yours," Mrs Malfoy spoke softy over her shoulder, as she glided through a tall, dark doorway and out of sight. Seizing Harry's arm, Draco pulled his bewildered friend up the gleaming central staircase, and through several polished corridors. The walls were lined with portraits of beautifully dressed people: jewellery and eyes flashed from the frames. Harry's room lay behind an elaborately carved set of doors. It was done up elegantly in various shades of blue, with two large windows overlooking a lake, and beautifully varnished furniture, into which, Harry was amazed to discover, his things had already been deposited. The centrepiece of the room was an enormous, plush bed, which Draco immediately sprawled across ceremoniously, in his usual way.

"Your bathroom's in there." Draco drawled, waving a hand towards a door next to the desk. "We can go anywhere in the house, but father said we have to keep away from the fourth floor. Merlin knows why." Draco rolled his eyes, before suddenly licking his lips, looking a little nervous. "So, what do you think?"

A million thoughts raced through Harry's mind. "Very nice, Malfoy." He shot his friend a grin and the other boy relaxed back onto the bed with a smirk.

They spent the next few hours before dinner exploring, with Draco smugly leading Harry through endless reception rooms and dining rooms, across several floors. He saved the west wing for last, knowing that it was the part of the manor that would most impress his friend.

Harry could feel his breathing pick up as they wandered through these much sparser corridors. The air seemed thick with the dark, tart magic that permeated the whole building, but seemed to pool abundantly here. The more Harry breathed it in the more he was affected: it was as if his surroundings were beginning to blur.

"Mother doesn't much like this part of the manor, because father keeps all his dark objects here. She says the magic is too oppressive, but father spends quite a lot of time in here, and I'm allowed to walk through it as I like." Draco looked back at him, seeing the way Harry's pupils had dilated. "It feels good doesn't it? Mother says dark magic is far too addictive, but I'm not weak enough to get addicted to it. I like to come here, to feel it but its not that I need to. I just want to."

Harry was finding it hard to pay attention to his friend. The magic was so overpowering and thick that it was dominating all of his senses. He took a deep breath, and willed his head to be clearer.

"Father says I'm too young to touch most of his stuff, and some people can't touch dark things at all, ever." Draco snorted: "Probably people like Weasley. But in Romulus's room he keeps some things for me to look at. I'll show you – we just have time before supper." Draco took his hand and pulled him faster into the twisting corridor. The walls seemed endless - there were no doors, only portraits: the intimidating inhabitants watched them pass with piercing eyes. At the end of the third turn they stopped, in front of a painting in which a boy with dark hair slept.

"Romulus." The boy stirred. "Romulus!" His eyes blinked open, and he looked down at them sleepily, before shutting them again. Harry heard a click and the picture swung forward, revealing a cavernous, mouth-like hole in the wall.

The room beyond was large and windowless, with a flagstone floor and shadowy walls. Lots of dusty objects were haphazardly scattered across the ground, strangely illuminated by candlelight.

"Dark objects should be kept in places which aren't in perfect order, because of the chaotic nature of dark magic. Otherwise, of course, this room would be as spotless as the rest of the manor," Draco explained loftily. Harry nodded distractedly, looking around him with fascination. "Most of the things here are damaged so they're not very powerful." Harry would beg to differ, his hand hovering over a globe that pulsed tantalising waves of something into his hand, the hair on his arms prickling.

Draco sauntered over to a little china teacup that sitting on the splintering floor. "This is the conniving cup." He held it up under Harry's nose as the dark haired boy wandered over. "Anyone who drinks from it is forced to digest whatever's inside. Doesn't matter much if its pumpkin juice, but fill it with poison and it's lethal." To prove his point, the boy whipped out his hand, hissing aquamentai, and filled the cup with a stream of water. He held it out to his friend with a smirk.

Harry took it without hesitation, keen to feel more of that bitter energy. He exhaled at the pleasure in his fingers, instinctively raising it to his lips and drinking. It slid down his throat with an unusually heavy feeling, sinking like a weight into his stomach. Draco grinned at him at his slightly uncomfortable expression, and he took the teacup back before running over to fetch something from the other side of the room. He returned clutching a plaque with what looked like a rotten hand sticking out of it, placing it reverently on the floor.

"This is my hand of glory. Father got it for my last birthday from Borgin and Burkes – one of the shops that sells dark objects on Knockturn Alley. It's unique." Harry reached out a tentative hand to it, not noticing the look of anticipation on his friends face. It's magic didn't feel quite as dark as the cups, but it was more erratic and he felt instinctively wary of it. His fingers brushed the thumb, only for him to gasp and pull back in shock as the hand clamped shut, just missing his fingers.

Draco looked disappointed. "The first time Blaise touched it he couldn't get his hand free for over half an hour." Harry smirked as Draco sulkily put the mutated hand away, internally thanking his instinctive caution. His eyes roving the room, he suddenly caught sight of a dark brown leather object sticking out from behind a large brass globe. As he looked at it, he was struck by the feeling that he'd seen it before. He wandered over and knelt beside it, shifting a pile of cards sitting on top of it to get a better look. On closer inspection, it was clear it was a book of some sort, but it was unlabelled apart from a series of golden initials stamped into the bottom right corner: T.M.R. He let his hand hover a few centimetres from its cover and was surprised not to feel anything. Perhaps it was just an ordinary book.

"What are you looking at?" Draco was suddenly kneeling next to him, peering at the object curiously. "I've never seen that before. Father must have put it in here whilst I was away at school." The blonde boy reached out and seized it, and as his hand came into contact with it Harry felt an odd sort of uncomfortable lurching in his stomach. Draco hummed. "This doesn't seem like a dark object, feels perfectly ordinary to me." The blonde boy flipped through it, revealing blank pages with a snort. "There's not even anything written in it – it's just an empty book! Father must have left it in here by accident." He callously dropped it to the ground, relieving Harry of the strange lurching sensation. "We should probably go back to our rooms to get dressed for dinner – oh, you did bring formal robes didn't you?"

But Harry wasn't listening. The book was lying innocuously on the ground, and Harry was sure he'd never seen it before, yet it seemed familiar to him. Suddenly, an image of his aunt's ring flashed through his mind, and he remembered the first time he'd seen it, glinting in the tinny electric light of the Dursley's living room. In his memory it stood out starkly, a piece of gold in a sea of greyscale experiences. This book felt familiar: it felt the same. He wanted it—

"Draco. Mr. Potter." A sharp, male voice cut through his train of thought sharply, and Harry was jerked free of his reverie, jumping to his feet.

"Father!"

A tall, beautifully dressed man was standing by the door to the room – this must be Draco's father: Lucius Malfoy. He had the icy, stiff look of his wife: Harry thought that they looked like two halves of the same statue.

Mr Malfoy surveyed them both, his cold eyes dipping briefly to the book on the floor, before smiling tightly. "Welcome, Mr. Potter. Dinner will be served in half an hour. I suggest you both return to your rooms and make yourselves presentable. Mr. Potter, the elves have informed me you have not brought formal robes; you will borrow some from Draco." Harry suppressed a blush, somehow feeling that he was being reprimanded, and nodded. As Draco tugged him from the room by the hand, he cast one last look over his shoulder, only to see Mr. Malfoy bending down towards the book. His view was cut off abruptly as the portrait slammed shut.

* * *

Pigeon.

Harry could hardly believe it, but that was undoubtedly what the man who'd delivered the four steaming birds to the table had said – Pigeon, sir, gently pan-fried and sitting on a bed of delicately spiced French lentils.

He quickly speared a piece of pink meat on his fork, wanting neither to offend his hosts, nor seem unsophisticated. Admittedly, it smelt wonderful. He tried to shake the image of the scrawny, diseased creatures that haunted Little Whinging from his mind, and took a tentative bite.

"Draco tells me, Mr. Potter, that you've been recruited onto the Slytherin quidditch team." Mr. Malfoy watched him as he chewed from his seat across the table, with icy eyes. The posh drawl of his voice dragged the words out in a way that was almost mocking. "The youngest seeker in a century. How…impressive."

Harry resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably, instead smiling back in what he hoped was a modest way. "Thank you sir, but it's just a school sport."

"Oh, no need to be bashful. Nowadays, I hear you can pursue a career in it." Mr. Malfoy's mocking tone conveyed just how much he thought such a career was worth: nothing. Harry was vaguely aware of Draco swallowing next to him, and suddenly got the impression that the older mans words was not directed at him, but rather at his son.

"Renée, do fetch us another bottle of the Châteauneuf-du-Pape. " Mrs Malfoy' voice cut through the tension in the room, a manservant wordlessly slipping out of the doors.

"Well, I do hope you've both enjoyed you're first term at Hogwarts. We were, of course, aggrieved to hear about the incident at Halloween. To think, a troll finding its way into the school." Mr. Malfoy tutted as he sliced expertly into his bird. "It seems standards at my dear alma mater are slipping. It's been fifty years since a girl last died at Hogwarts – oddly enough, she was a muggleborn as well." The man took a mouthful of pink meat, chewing it slowly, before swallowing. "A dangerous thing to be, it seems."

Harry hummed his agreement; aware of the blood prejudices the Malfoy's held. He didn't particularly share them - after all, his own mother had been a muggleborn - but he wasn't interested in fighting about it. He didn't think Hermione Granger had been much of a loss to the school anyway – in fact he enjoyed his classes much more without her presence. She had been incredibly irritating.

"Of course, it has had its benefits. We can only hope the case that the board of governors have put before the minister calling for the dismissal of our revered headmaster is successful." Lucius sneered into his goblet of wine. "If this isn't proof enough of his inadequacy as head of the school I don't know what is."

Harry took a sip from his own goblet of pumpkin juice. He didn't know what to think about headmaster Dumbledore. At the start of the year the other Slytherin boys had seemed to think he would take a special interest in Harry due to his status as 'defeater' of Voldemort, but the man hadn't spoken to him once. Occasionally he caught him watching him in the great hall as he ate with his friends, but no more than that. Harry couldn't help but be a bit disappointed. Although he knew it was silly, he felt a bit slighted by the headmaster's disinterest in him - especially since he had grown to expect it.

The room was silent for a few minutes as they polished off their pigeon. There were a lot of questions running through Harry's head, but he didn't feel it would be right to ask. The rules here, he could sense, were different. He would have to learn them by taking his cues from his hosts, who didn't seem to speak freely – all their words seemed calculated. It was only when their plates were swept away by the very efficient staff that Mr. Malfoy spoke again. "I do hope you like the manor, Mr. Potter."

"It's beautiful sir," Harry said earnestly. It was.

"Yes, quite. You liked Romulus' Room, i take it?"

Harry nodded tentatively: Mr Malfoy's eyes felt as if they were cutting into him like tiny shards of glass.

"I must admit, Mr. Potter, that I had not expected you to have…an interest in dark things."

Harry cautiously kept his expression blank, and the older mans lip curled up a little, revealing several pearly white teeth.

"I did, of course, when Draco told me you had been sorted into Slytherin, suspect there might be something more to you than legend suggests."

There was silence once more around the table. Draco had been unusually subdued throughout the meal, and Mrs Malfoy didn't seem to speak much at all. Harry was grateful when he and Draco were finally able to slip away from the table, leaving the adults behind. However, as they shut the door behind them, Draco put a finger to his lips with a smirk, and pressed his ear to it. Harry copied, and muffled voices sounded through the wood.

"Perhaps, Narcissa, we should arrange for a little tutoring for Draco and our guest before they return to school. Something special."

Harry exchanged a wide-eyed look with Draco.

"Lucius, you must remember, the ministry—"

"Is very much reliant on my monetary...contributions." Lucius cut across his hesitant wife sharply, and Harry thought he could hear his smirk. "There is no need to worry about any interference from the Minister. Besides, the manor is heavily warded and already quite obviously touched by dark magic. As long as they don't use their own wands, nobody outside of our circle will be any the wiser."

Harry and Draco held their breath, their eyes locked.

"It will be our little secret, my dear. The risks are really very minimal, especially when weighed against what is potentially to be gained."

* * *

December 19th 1991

* * *

Harry had been staying at Malfoy Manor for four days when he saw Professor Quirrell walking down one of the many grand staircases he was quickly coming to know. Harry was standing in the shadow of an alcove on the third floor landing, keeping watch as Draco snuck into his fathers study to retrieve a prank pen Mr Malfoy had confiscated the day before. The man didn't notice him, and appeared to be lost in thought as he descended the marble steps. Harry, caught up in confusion as to why the man would be in the manor, only noticed where exactly the man had come from long after his professor had passed out of sight: the fourth floor.

December 24th 1991

"Hold still Harry. You keep pulling the catch out of my fingers." Harry rolled his eyes as Draco huffed against his neck. He stilled for a moment, before shifting again and eliciting yet another moan of frustration from his friend.

"This is boring, Draco—"

"Yes well you've got to wear them. You can't turn up to the Malfoy Christmas Party as my guest of honour in that terrible muggle clothing you always insist on wearing—"

"I don't insist on wearing them! Those are just the only clothes I own—"

"Well then you should buy some new ones! It's not exactly difficult - you just go to a shop, get the aide to select some materials, have them cut and fitted, and then hand over some money." Draco accentuated this statement by pulling the back of Harry's dress robes together tightly in one sharp motion, drawing a choked gasp from his friend.

"That hurt—"

"If you wanted to be dressed nicely then you should have let the elves do it," the blonde boy hissed back. After he himself had been dressed, Draco had burst into Harry's room, only to discover, much to his chagrin, that he wasn't yet ready. A little further investigation had revealed that Harry had turned out the elves sent to prepare him, and had spent the last half-hour in the bath. Draco had been forced to undertake the task of preparing Harry himself, and the smaller boy had not stopped moaning since he'd started.

"Turn around."

Harry did, and Draco quickly combed the younger boys wild hair into a mildly more presentable state, making sure his scar was visible. He wanted to make that everyone there knew exactly who his best friend was.

Finished, he stepped back to survey his work. The robes looked good, fitting Harry perfectly, and the dark green colour complimented both his wavy black hair and his bright, bottle green eyes. Draco smiled; he had chosen well.

"You're ready."

It was only eight o'clock in the evening, but the central ballroom at the manor was already buzzing with guests. Impeccably dressed witches and wizards flitted across the room between acquaintances, and waiters darted expertly between them, offering canapés and champagne. As Harry and Draco entered the room, a butler to the left of the door tinkled a bell, and the room went silent.

"Master Draco Abraxas, Heir Malfoy, and his honoured guest: Mr. Harry Potter."

The mass of guests bowed politely to the two boys, as was custom, before excited chatter broke out across the room – the fact that the boy-who-lived was in attendance was hot news. Draco took Harry by the cuff of his robe and led him towards the drinks table, where Blaise was talking in hushed tones to Matilda Avery.

"Draco! Harry!" Blaise gave both of them a hug, whilst Matilda nodded at them before slinking off through the crowd.

Draco's eyes narrowed. "That was rude."

"She's shy." Blaise smirked at them, grabbing a flute of champagne off a passing waiters tray.

"She seemed perfectly happy to talk to you."

"Yes, well, we sit next to each other in Herbology."

Draco only snorted, examining his nails.

"How's the 'honoured guest'?" Blaise grinned lazily at Harry, but before he could reply a long fingered hand gripped his shoulder, and he spun round only to face Mr. Malfoy, who was accompanied by a fat man in a pinstriped suit.

"This here, Minister, is the boy himself - our dear family friend, Mr. Potter. You've met Draco and Mr. Zabini before, of course."

"Harry Potter? Is it really? How wonderful to meet you, Harry! May I call you Harry?" Harry suppressed a wince as the red faced stranger grasped his hand in a clammy handshake, before blustering on. "I'm the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge."

Harry smiled mechanically. "It's an honour to meet you minister."

"I imagine that, growing up with muggles, you don't know much about the ministry!" He chuckled, as if he couldn't imagine such a thing.

"No. They don't really teach that sort of thing at orphanages."

Fudge's sweaty forehead furrowed. "Orphanages?"

Harry's reply was hesitant: "The place where children without parents go." Had the minister for magic never heard of an orphanage? He supposed that they didn't have magical ones - if they had he would have gone to one. He sighed. Only if.

"Yes, yes, I know what an orphanage is, but i just didn't—Am I really to take it that you grew up in an orphanage?"

Harry nodded his head: "Yes, sir."

The man's lips quivered a little. "There's no record of this at the ministry. According to our information you have been living with muggle relatives."

"Oh, well, I did live with my aunt and uncle for a while, but then they died."

The man's expression morphed into one of horror. "They died? Oh, dear Merlin, how?" Harry opened his mouth to respond that he really had no idea, but Fudge quickly checked himself. "Oh, no, sorry Mr. Potter that was rather inappropriate. I'm just rather shocked you see. This is all quite unexpected—"

"I must confess Minister that I myself had no idea either." Mr. Malfoy smoothly re-entered the conversation, an appropriately shocked expression on his face. Harry rolled his eyes internally; Mr. Malfoy definitely did know - in fact he had already asked him about it several times during his stay. Draco must have told him. "I can't quite believe that Dumbledore would keep such important information from his superiors."

The Minister continued to look confused. "Dumbledore?"

"Why, Dumbledore must have known about this Minister. After all Mr. Potter's Hogwarts letter would have been addressed to the orphanage rather than the home of this aunt and uncle. How incredibly neglectful of him not to keep you informed."

The minister's expression morphed into one of anger. "Of course, you're quite right Lucius: Dumbledore. That man seeks to undermine me at every turn."

"He's a menace to us all minister. I was deeply troubled by events at Hogwarts at Halloween; that poor, poor girl."

Fudge nodded along, his gaze hazing over. "He's after my job, you know." His eyes trailed over the three students in front of him. "He thinks he'd make a better job of it."

"Of course he does." Mr. Malfoy's words were practically sodden with false sympathy, but the minister didn't seem to notice. "Ah - there is Barty Crouch. We might do well to discuss this with him, minister: perhaps he will be able to spill a little more light on the situation." Fudge let himself be led off by the blonde man back into the crowd.

Harry looked at Draco curiously. "What's your father up to?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "He's trying to push through the case calling for Dumbledore's dismissal."

Blaise scoffed. "That's a lost cause."

Draco glared back. "Not necessarily. Fudge hates him even more than Father—"

"Perhaps, but Fudge doesn't make the call, the court does. And everybody knows that the courts stuffed full of Dumbledore's lapdogs. For the moment at least, Dumbledore will stay."

Harry's interest was piqued. "Dumbledore's lapdogs?"

"The remnants of the people who fought for the light side in the last war; the ringleader is Kingsley Shacklebolt but there are several other key players, particularly Arthur Weasley and Amelia Bones."

"Arthur Weasley - is that Ron Weasley's father?"

This time it was Draco who replied. "Yes. A pathetic excuse for a wizard if you ask me; he holds a very minor position in the ministry." Harry smirked as Blaise mouthed 'Blood Feud' to him. He was familiar with the animosity between the Weasley and Malfoy families. "However, he is the head of an ancient pureblood family so he holds several seats in the Court of Lords. Not that the man uses them, he lets Dumbledore cast his votes. At least Shacklebolt and Bones turn up."

Harry bit his lip as an idea began to form in his head. "So Ron is the Weasley heir?"

Draco guffawed and Blaise sniggered. Harry looked between them, confused.

"What's so funny about that?"

Draco collected himself. "Not quite. He has five older brothers." Harry's eyes almost popped out of his head.

"Five?"

"I know, disgusting isn't it. They spawn like frogs. The oldest two have left Hogwarts already, but there are another three in the school on top of the one in our year."

"Wow, six children—"

"Seven."

"Seven?"

"Apparently there's a younger daughter as well."

Suddenly, the memory of a small girl sitting on a luggage trolley peering back at him flashed through his mind, and he let out a little moan of remembrance. This time it was his friends who looked confused.

"When I came through kings cross to get on the train in September, I saw Ron and that girl with their mother."

"Oh, poor you. The mother's the worst. Nasty, shrill thing."

"She seemed alright. She told me how to get through the barrier."

"The barrier? Wasn't there anybody accompanying you?" Blaise frowned.

"That groundskeeper Hagrid took me there, but disappeared after he dropped me off."

"Hagrid?" Draco exchanged a horrified look with Blaise. "You're joking! They sent you that savage to help you find the train?"

"Well, like I said, he didn't do much to help me find it."

Blaise hummed, depositing his empty champagne glass on the table behind him. "If you ask me Harry, that seems very strange. If that happened to all the muggleborns then most of them would ever make the train." Draco perked up at that, clearly liking the idea. "The man may be a savage, but he's not entirely moronic: I can't believe he'd leave you to find you own way through the station if he hadn't been told to."

"Yes, I was pretty surprised by it. It was lucky that the Weasley woman was there really."

"Yes." Blaise looked at him thoughtfully. "Dreadfully convenient."

Harry looked across at his two friends, who were looking darkly at each other. "I know what you're both thinking, and it's ridiculous! She barely even spoke to me anyway," But even as he'd said it, he remembered how she'd gotten colder after he'd given her his fake name. "Anyway, Dumbledore himself hasn't shown the slightest interest in me since I actually arrived at the school – its not as if he's clamouring to befriend me." Harry carefully kept the slight bitterness out of his voice.

Blaise nodded. "Fair point. Nevertheless, I still think there's more to it than sloppy management on the part of the school."

They all exchanged meaningful looks, before Draco grabbed Harry's sleeve. "Let's go make the rounds. After all, all the guests are dying to meet you." Harry shot Blaise an apologetic look as Draco tugged him off into the crowd, but the other boy only winked back, before disappearing himself.

* * *

January 1st 1992

* * *

"Since, for obvious reasons, you are unable to use your own wands, I've brought along a few spares from my collection. Run your hands along them to find one that feels compatible, and then we can start."

The tutor Lucius had hired for their Dark Arts lesson was a long, bony man, dressed from head to toe in shimmering slate-grey robes. His thick, silver hair was shorn close to his scalp, and he had a strange string of ugly tattoos down one side of his neck. He had given his name as Mr. Amoretti, but Harry had a sneaking suspicion he was under glamour. As Draco surged forward to the wands the tutor had placed on Lucius' desk – he had decided the lesson would be held in his own study - Harry looked up at the stranger curiously. "I thought it was illegal to have more than one wand?"

The man snorted. "If you hadn't noticed, boy, dark magic is illegal."

"Where did you get them then, if not from Ollivanders?"

"I have my methods."

"What methods?"

The man sighed in annoyance, crossing his arms. "I collect wands that no longer have owners."

"Why?"

"Some fetch a good price on the black market, although most, like these, refuse another master. Nevertheless, it shouldn't kill you to use them for one lesson. Now, get on with it, I don't have all day."

Harry walked forward, and Draco, seeing him approaching, quickly snatched up a particularly long wand. "This one's chosen me."

The man rolled his eyes. "Get over here boy, and you, hurry up."

Harry ran his hand over the wands, wincing as a particularly vicious one stung his hand. The others weren't quite so vehement in their rejection of him, but several made his hand itch unpleasantly, and another was ice-cold to the touch. His fingers dug deeper, and suddenly they brushed against something that sent a rush of pleasant warmth up into the bones of his hand. Hopeful, he dug to the bottom, letting the comfortable heat in his hand guide him towards a long, dark wand. As he pulled it free of the others, heat raced up his arm, flushing through his body in a way that almost felt affectionate. Apart from the fact no sparks flew from the end, the feeling was very familiar to the first time he had held his own wand. In fact, the whole wand was like a darker, heavier and quite a lot longer version of his own.

Looking up, he saw the man was tapping his foot against the polished floor impatiently, and Draco was looking bored. "I think I've found one."

"If it's not burning your hand off, it'll do. Let's begin." He strode forward into the centre of the room, drawing a large chalk circle on the floor with his wand. "All the magic we perform today will be contained within this circle. This entire building is rife with dark matter, and whilst you will be somewhat used to it, it will be much easier to perform spells without it interfering." Harry and Draco stepped into it, and immediately the heavy presence of dark magic seemed to lift. The air seemed much lighter, but Harry felt an odd sense of emptiness. He frowned.

"First of all, it is important you understand some of the theory behind dark magic – due to the ministry's continued refusal to see reason," The man sneered angrily, "there are many misconceptions circulating today about it. I will do my best to dispel them. Firstly, you must know that dark magic is magic in it's most basic form – wild, mutating, indestructible. When wizards first came to use magic, thousands of years ago, dark magic was what they harnessed. It was powerful and impressive beyond anything anyone had known before. However, for those who were weak, it was also uncontrollable. That is why, around 2000 years ago, wizards began to develop another type of magic – the light magic you see today in the classroom. Light spells use words to break down wild magic into a more usable form, for a particular purpose."

The man looked at them intently. "Therein lies the difference between these two branches of magic. Light magic is man-made, more easily usable but constrained by the human mind, which creates spells for a purpose. Dark magic is natural, and therefore a thousand times more complex – it has no rhythm or reason as we understand it, as it is organic. Imagine a sheet of glass; clear, rigid, unmoving. Then imagine a field of grass; the unique cells which make up each blade, the roots that spread under the ground beyond sight, the constant regeneration. This comparison embodies the contrast between these two magical strains."

He took a swig from a flask at his hip.

"Those who can wield dark magic are few and far between. I can't promise you that you will ever be able to perform even the most simple of dark enchantments, although I would be surprised if that were to be the case." his eyes scanned over their enthusiastic faces. "Your progress in the practise of such an art cannot be determined by your own effort or desire, although those things may well help you. The magic decides who wields it, and dark magic is notoriously unpredictable. Only the most powerful can repeatedly harness it with success." Harry could see Draco puffing out his chest out of the corner of his eye, and smirked. "Wizards and witches master Arts such as Potions, Transfiguration and Charms with relative frequency. There is only one man I've ever encountered, in my seventy-two years of practising dark magic, who could be considered a master of the Dark Arts."

Harry swallowed: his throat felt dry.

"The power of the Dark Lord is beyond your pitifully limited imagination. His magic was something no one had ever seen the likes of – dark; all-consuming; addictive in its strength."

Snape's words rang in Harry's ears, and the wand in his hand seemed to pulse. He was sure Amoretti was referring to the Dark Lord, and felt the urge to ask a question, but the tutor was already speaking again:

"That's a very basic overview, but all we have time for today as I want this lesson to lean in a more practical direction. However, I would recommend extensive further reading if you are serious about your desire to pursue this subject. There are several copies of 'The Darkest of Arts: The Theory and a History' by Edmund Lear in the library here - perhaps if Lucius is feeling generous he will allow you both to take a concealed copy back to school with you. I'll speak to him about it afterwards. Now, let's try and have you both practise your first bit of dark magic."

Draco and Harry exchanged excited looks, and with a flourish of his wand Amoretti conjured a mesh cage, taking a large rat from his pocket and dropping it inside. The vermin scrabbled about inside, and Harry felt an itch of revulsion.

"Now, as I told you before, dark magic is extremely hard to control, not to mention incredibly draining. Due to its natural volatility, the easiest way to use it is with violent intent. So, that's what we will attempt to do today: harm this rat. Allow me to demonstrate." He pointed his wand at the rat, before glancing up to grin at his pupils. "I hope you're not squeamish." And with a sharp, hard movement he swung down his wand.

Harry heard Draco gasp next to him as the animal was torn apart violently with a pitiful squeal, blood spattering against the floor of the cage. Amoretti had cut the creature exactly in half, and Harry watched in avid fascination as the tutor traced a finger along the air above it.

"Observe the cleanness of the cut: straight up the middle, through the belly and up the neck. That is the real challenge today: to exercise some control over the magic you are trying to use. If I had not been in control, that would have been much messier. Notice how I did not need to use words – as I have already said, language is for light magic. There are no spells in dark magic, instead you have to guide the raw medium to do what you want using your mind."

Harry's forehead creased as he remembered something he'd read about in The Standard Book of Spells: "Aren't the unforgivable curses dark magic? They use words."

The man snorted, looking disdainful. "No. The ministry just markets them as such to keep up the harmful associations of dark magic. The reality is that they are spells, and so they are technically light. However, it is true that they are used widely amongst members of dark society - they are relatively easy to cast in comparison to the conjuring of dark magic."

Harry opened his mouth again curiously but the man cut him off brusquely – "That is more than enough chit-chat." Harry glowered. "We need to get on with the practical side of things - Malfoy, you first. Come and stand here."

As Draco strutted over, the man vanished the rat's body, pulling another one out of his pocket and placing it in the cage. He turned to address them.

"To perform this spell the first thing you need to do is clear your mind, leaving naught but your desire to cut this rat in two. Then, picture exactly how you want it done – a straight, neat line right up the rodent's middle. One you have successfully done those two things, slice your wand down, keeping the picture of what you want done at the forefront of your mind. You understand?"

The blonde boy nodded, but when he immediately moved his wand towards the floor Harry could tell he hadn't done it properly – there was a loud squeal, but the rat was still alive, although now tail-less.

Draco fell to his knees.

The man hummed. "Not bad for a first attempt, but you were too hasty – you didn't leave yourself enough time to carry out the two tasks I set you. Now you." The man gestured towards Harry, grasping Draco by the scruff of his neck and depositing him on the chaise-long by Lucius' desk.

Harry stepped forward, cautiously. The tailless rat was squeaking loudly in terror, hunched up in the corner of its cage.

"Remember boy – focus."

Harry nodded, but before he could clear his mind he felt an odd warmth spread through the wand in his hand – suddenly – instinctively - he knew what to do. The wood tingled, and Harry levelled it at the rodent, closing his eyes. Cut. Centre. Kill. He slashed.

There was no noise, nothing but a rush of dark, almost painful pleasure – it entered him from all sides, flowing freely through the flesh of his body to meet at the tip of the wand, before exploding outwards, leaving him empty.

He opened his eyes to see the frescoed ceiling, his whole body tingling with aftershock.

He flushed in embarrassment once he processed that he'd fallen onto his back, but before he could say anything a hand grasped his shirt and pulled him to his feet. The tutor stood in front of him, his eyes curiously bright. He nodded to the cage, and Harry followed his gaze.

The rat was lying dead in two perfect, mirrored halves.

* * *

January 3rd 1992

* * *

It was nearly the end of the holidays when Harry and Draco finally decided to sneak up to the fourth floor.

Draco's parents had gone out for the day, to some sort of social event, and they were alone in the manor with the servants and portraits. They'd spent the morning on the lawns, whistling on their brooms through the brisk January air, and were feeling energised and invigorated. Ready, in other words, to do something thrilling.

They had set up a game of wizarding chess in one of the third floor drawing rooms, near the staircase, and then Draco had gotten his enormous eagle owl, Spartacus, to create a diversion on the second floor. They made their move as soon as all the portraits had emptied, drawn like moths to the excitement on the floor below.

They had crept up the stairs as quietly as they could, their feet falling almost soundlessly on the wood. At the top they were met, not with a corridor, as on the floors below, but a sweeping red velvet curtain. They pushed the material – which was surprisingly heavy - aside, to reveal a great pair of dark wooden doors. A look of deep significance passed between the two boys. This was the point of no return. Whatever was behind these doors, they were now going to face it.

Together, they each put a hand on a doorknob, and twisted. And twisted again. There was no click – the knobs turned endlessly. They exchanged looks of profound confusion. They then pushed the doors. They wouldn't budge. In turn they both cast alohomora, and then simultaneously, to no effect. They took their shoulders to their door, and bashed against the wood, to no avail, then, having worked themselves into something of a frenzy, took to kicking them. Then, having thoroughly tired themselves out, they flopped onto the floor, panting.

"I suppose we should have guessed that might happen," Harry gasped, leaning back on his elbows. Draco only snorted, aiming a final kick at the skirting board.

* * *

January 6th 1992

* * *

"I do hope, Harry, that you're going to continue exploring the Dark Arts." Mr. Malfoy's voice was soft as silk, but there was the hint of something sharper underneath. He and Harry were walking together alone in the grounds, as Draco and his mother had gone to visit a distant relation. It appeared neither Mr. Malfoy not Harry were welcome. Harry had been planning on spending the last day before returning to Hogwarts finishing his holiday work, but when at breakfast Mr Malfoy had suggested they tour the parklands, he couldn't refuse. Malfoy senior fascinated him. "Mr. Amoretti thought you were quite the talent."

"He was a great teacher, sir. Thank you." The right corner of Lucius Malfoy's lips curled up, in the slightest of smirks.

"Well, I'm glad you benefitted. It's a shame I can't say the same for Draco." Harry was quiet for a moment, unsure of how to respond, and looked to his surroundings for a change of topic.

"Those lobelias must be nearly five feet tall." The comment was banal, but Mr. Malfoy looked bemused.

"Six. Do you garden at that...communal place where you live?"

Harry smiled. "No - when I still lived with my Aunt and Uncle it was one of my chores. My Aunt made me learn all the different names and varieties so I would know what the neighbours were planting. She was very competitive about that sort of thing."

Mr. Malfoy tutted. "Doesn't sound like much fun for a little boy."

"It wasn't." Harry grimaced. "Nothing was ever much fun with the Dursley's."

"You didn't get along, then?"

Harry shook his head with a wry smile. "Not exactly. I suppose they didn't really understand magic – or me."

The blonde-haired man hummed sympathetically. "Muggles never do, do they? They're just so placid, so ignorant. Such chattel." The man wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Nowadays, of course, it's the done thing to pretend otherwise. It's a sad day, isn't it Mr. Potter, when the done thing isn't the honest thing?"

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. "I take it you're no muggle lover, sir?"

"And you are?"

Harry smiled. "Not exactly – I couldn't say I hated them though. I don't really feel anything for them."

"It is always better, Mr. Potter, to have an opinion."

Harry shot him an amused look. "As long as it's the right one?"

The man smirked back. "Naturally."

There was silence for several minutes, uninterrupted but for the occasional trills of peacocks, and the crunch of fresh snow under their feet. Harry watched a red squirrel dash across the icy path, a bright nut clutched possessively in its claws.

"Can i ask you a question, sir?"

"You can ask me anything, Mr. Potter."

"Please call me Harry, sir." Lucius Malfoy smirked at him like a Cheshire cat.

"As you wish."

"What's on the fourth floor?"

"That is, I'm afraid, for me to know, Harry, and perhaps, should things continue in a certain manner, for you to find out." Harry sighed at the cryptic answer.

"Can I ask you another question, sir?"

"Of course, Harry."

"This one's a bit of a taboo subject – the books in the school library don't have anything on it—"

"Now, Harry: you can trust me." His smile was so convincing Harry almost believed him. "I, after all, arranged your first Dark Arts lesson – believe me, Mr. Potter, taboo is my area." That was a fair enough point, so Harry continued.

"What did Voldemort want?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth Harry felt almost stupid for asking them. They sounded stupid, but the question had been ringing about in his head for a very long time, and Lucius Malfoy seemed the right person to ask.

"What did the Dark Lord…want?" The man rolled the word around in his mouth distastefully, and Harry rushed to better define his question.

"I mean - if he won the war - what was he planning on doing?"

Mr. Malfoy gave Harry a long look, and for the first time since he'd met him, there was heat in his cold eyes. "The Dark Lord had many very varied ambitions, but, ultimately, he sought the betterment of our society. He fought for magical equality. He fought to create a unified magical state. He fought for the safety of our kind."

Harry frowned at the vague answer. "How did he hope to achieve that though – what did he want to change specifically?"

The Malfoy Lord smirked wickedly. "Everything that's wrong with the world, Mr. Potter. He wanted to abolish the legislation that inhibits the practise of all magic not currently included on the Hogwarts syllabus. He wanted to destroy the laws that damn so-called 'dark creatures'. He wanted to create a strong, one-party state, dedicated to the protection of magic and those who practise it. He wanted to sever all connections with the muggle world, and have muggle-born children removed from their unsuitable parents at birth. There was even the suggestion, at one point, that he wanted Britain to be a place free of the pollution of muggle-kind: an international respite for the magical."

"He wanted to remove the muggles - abroad?"

The older man's smirk, if possible, widened. "He wanted to remove the muggles permanently."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise – he had known Voldemort and his followers shared a passionate hatred for the non-magical, but he had been unaware it stretched quite that far. "Is that the reason he was so heavily opposed?"

"His hard-handedness was too much for the weaker of heart, yes. However, there were also those who didn't like the idea of a one-party state - totalitarian is the word I've heard bandied about." The man sneered. "They were the weaker of mind, the fearful, who believed that our world was safer in their hands than in the undoubtedly superior ones of the Dark Lord." The blonde-haired man scoffed at the idea, as if such a thought was preposterous. "If there is anything the last ten years has shown us, it's that the magical world does not fare well in the care of ordinary people." He almost spat the last two words.

Harry probed for a little more information, desperate to find out more: "The Dark Lord was extraordinary, then?"

The older man snorted, flicking a stray piece of snow off his heavy robes. "I sincerely hope you don't think that a Malfoy would have committed himself to the cause of a man who was any less, Mr. Potter."

Harry smiled, and with that the conversation took a more trivial turn. Nevertheless, it was clear the wily man had taken careful note of their discussion, because on the day Harry was due to journey back to Hogwarts he found a neatly wrapped package on his bed, with an elegantly scripted note attached:

_Mr. Potter,_

_Attached is a parting gift – a recommendation on the part of dear Mr Amoretti. I'm sure I need not tell you to conceal it well._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Lucius._

Inside the wrappings was a copy of The Darkest of Arts: A Theory and a History by Edmund Lear – the book, Harry recalled, that Mr. Amoretti had recommended. But as he shook out the wrappings a second thing fell out – the breath left his body in a whoosh of air. It was the wand with which he'd killed the rat.


	5. I.v Mirrors and Dragons

* * *

_January 8th 1992_

* * *

 

"Tea really was simply awful – Aunt Agatha is one of those who doesn't abide house-elves, but everybody knows no human servant can stew the leaves in quite the same way an elf can. They may be unsightly, but it's a small price to pay for a decent pot of tea. Not to mention she only served lemon drizzle cake, when she well knows my favourite is coffee cream!"

"Merlin forbid!" Blaise gasped, and Draco glowered at him from the other side of the train compartment.

"You might think its funny now Blaise, but I can assure you it wasn't at the time – you wouldn't be laughing if you'd had to sit through six hours of that woman talking about her silly son with substandard refreshments. She didn't even ask me once what I'd been up to, no, it was all her." The blonde boy sneered angrily. "I wish you'd been there Harry."

"She didn't invite the golden boy?" Blaise looked over at Harry, surprised, but - like Theo - the boy had his head in a book.

"Aunt Agatha doesn't like strangers. She doesn't even like seeing father. Unfortunately, since we are actually blood relations she has no such reservations about me-"

The compartment door slid open noisily, and a jolly red face popped through it: "Anything from the trolley, dears?"

Draco looked affronted at the suggestion he would want anything off a trolley, but before he could say anything seriously offensive Blaise quickly ordered a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. The woman complied with a smile, before shooting a questioning look at the two that were reading. "And for your friends?"

Blaise kicked them both sharply in the shins, and they looked up, startled.

"Anything from the trolley?"

Theo bought a chocolate frog, but Harry shook his head, and immediately re-immersed himself in his book.

"Merlin Harry, you're even worse than Theo today!" Blaise grinned. "What is that?"

"Dark Defences – Quirrell gave it to me for extra reading." The lie slid easily through his teeth. He'd concealed the title the dark arts book Mr. Malfoy had given him by slipping a different dustcover over the top. He was still reading the first chapter: 'How can Dark Magic be defined?' It was turning out to be more of a struggle than he'd anticipated. The excitement of getting the book had dried up as soon as he'd turned the first page; the writing was old-fashioned and complex, and far from being illuminating, it was actually confusing.

Draco cleared his throat loudly. "On the topic of reading, I suppose we should get started on our copies of The Darkest of Arts: A Theory and the History, Harry." Harry almost dropped the book as he looked at Draco incredulously, whilst Blaise and Theo looked between them doubtfully. Draco really must be the worst secret keeper on the planet.

"Your Father gave you a copy of that?" Theo exclaimed, his eyebrows raised almost comically.

"Both of you?" Blaise added disbelievingly, looking at Harry.

Draco revelled in their envy, settling back in his seat smugly. "Of course. After all, we need to prepare for our Dark Arts lessons at Easter—"

"You're having lessons at Easter?"

"You're joking Draco…"

"I assure you I'm not. Father has arranged for both Harry and I to have them. After all, since the first one went so well—"

"The first one?"

"You've already had one?"

Blaise gaped and Theo's eyes looked as if they were going to pop, but before anyone could say anything else the compartment door crashed open again, this time revealing a girl who looked several years older than them, who was sporting the yellow markings of Hufflepuff.

"Hello—oh." The girl, trailed off as she caught sight of the colour of their ties. "Never mind—"

"Never mind what?" Blaise asked, his eyes narrowing.

She bit her lip, looking hesitant. "I'm collecting signatures for a petition." She gestured to the clipboard in her hand.

"A petition?" Draco wrinkled his nose. "Why on earth would you do that?"

She shifted a little in the doorway, looking wary. "It's to stop anything any repeats of what happened at Halloween."

Draco scoffed loudly, but Blaise held out his hand: "Let's see." After a moment of hesitation, the girl handed him the clipboard. Blaise's eyes scanned the page, and his expression first grew sceptical, then stormy. "This is calling for the introduction of tagging laws for dark creatures." Harry felt Theo stiffen up next to him, and looked up. Blaise looked livid – the Zabinis, Harry recalled, had some measure of vampire blood. "How is this related to what happened at Halloween?"

The girl raised her chin. "That first year girl was killed by a troll—"

"Trolls aren't dark creatures!" Blaise scoffed.

"The ministry classifies them—"

"The ministry classifies anything it doesn't like as dark, that doesn't mean they are." The girl began to retort, but Blaise talked over her. "This law would mean that pretty much all magical creatures, including humanoids like Werewolves and Vampires, would be tagged like animals—"

"Werewolves and Vampires are animals."

"No they are not!" Blaise glared at her furiously, before flicking angrily through the petition. "How many people have signed this?"

"Thirty-four, and if you're not going to join them, I'll take it back." The girl reached for the clipboard, but Blaise pulled it out of her reach. "Give it back!"

Blaise leapt from his seat and opened the catch on the window in one swift movement – the girl's eyes widened as she realised what he was about to do, but by the time she made a last desperate lunge for her petition Blaise had already chucked it out into the wintery air.

"No! Accio Petition – Accio Petition!" she cried, but it was already too late – the train hurtled forward, and the sheaf of paper was by now out of her range, probably already ruined in the snow at the verge of the track. She turned on Blaise, tears in her eyes: "You little brat! I'm going to report this!" She flew out into the corridor in a rage, leaving a compartment of grinning first years behind.

Draco smirked around at them. "What a Hufflepuff – a petition, honestly. Who does she think we are? What kind of riff-raff—"

"You shouldn't have mentioned that book." They all looked over at Theo, who was white-faced, and as stiff as a board.

"Shouldn't have mentioned what book?" Draco retorted, brow furrowed.

"That book – the lessons." They all looked at him quizzically, and he fixed them with a hard stare. "That girl could have heard everything."

Draco waved him off with a little laugh. "Don't be ridiculous—"

Theo glared at him. "I'm not. What if she had Draco?"

"Well she didn't—"

"But what if she had? She could have told anybody—"

"Oh please, who would believe that? Even if they did, its not as if anything would be done about it—"

"Not all of us can buy our way out of trouble Malfoy." Theo's voice was quiet, but almost seemed to quiver with anger. "My father's in prison for practising the Dark Arts, remember?"

Harry looked at Theo in shock. He had never told him that – in fact, he'd never mentioned his family before at all.

The awkward silence was broken as the compartment door slid open once again, to reveal a stout older boy with a Hufflepuff Prefect badge pinned to his chest. Peering over his shoulder furiously was the petition girl. The boy cleared his throat in a patronisingly manner, crossing his thick arms.

"Now, which of you threw Cassie's petition out of the window?" None of them spoke, and he tutted loudly; "Come on now, own up. I don't want to have to make your punishment any worse." When they still didn't reply, the girl stood up on her tiptoes to whisper in the boy's ear. His eyes came to rest on Blaise.

"I see—"

"What's going on here, Rudd?" The Hufflepuff pair started at the sound of the cutting, female voice behind them, and shifted to reveal the slight figure of Winifred Tugwood – the Slytherin prefect. The boys exchanged relieved looks, as the hammy Hufflepuff boy thrust his chin up in the air.

"Tugwood – its good you're here. These first years have been intimidating another student!"

Winifred gave a cold laugh, her eyes raking up and down the girl by the prefect's side. "Surely you're not suggesting that a couple of first years bullied a fourth year?"

The Hufflepuff girl went red, but the boy puffed out his chest. "I certainly am. They threw her petition out of the window—"

"What petition would that be?" Winifred leant against the doorframe, her eyes sharp.

The boy looked to Cassie, but before she could say anything Blaise piped up: "It was to persecute dark creatures—"

"No, it wasn't!" The girl seemed to have found her voice, and shot an angry look at him. "It was just for the tagging of dark creatures, in the wake of what happened at Halloween. It wasn't to persecute them, or anything like that." Winifred gazed at her coolly.

"I see." There was an edge to her voice that made the girl shrink back a little, and the boys in the compartment's toes curl in anticipation. "You don't consider tagging persecutory?"

"No – it would just be for monitoring purposes, nothing sinister." She tried to placate the Slytherin prefect. "If we knew where they were they could be more easily stopped them from hurting people."

Winifred did not look at all placated, and her eyes were icy as she gave the girl a cold look up and down. She turned to the red-cheeked prefect. "I'll take over from here, Rudd."

The boy, nervous, made to leave, but was hesitated as the Hufflepuff girl tugged imploringly on his sleeve. "I—uh…I'll just hand out a quick detention then and after that I'll be off—"

"No, Rudd, there's no need for that. As I said, I'm going to take care of this." One last sharp look was all it took to send the boy hurrying off down the corridor, pulling his sleeve free of the Hufflepuff girl who, after one last desperate look around, followed. Winifred coldly watched them go, before turning back to the first years. "If either of them come back, tell me or one of the other prefects. We don't need Hufflepuffs blundering about in our carriage." With that she strode off, her blonde plait swinging behind her.

They all – especially Blaise - exchanged smug looks, extremely pleased at having gotten off the hook, and for a while they entertained themselves by doing cruel impressions of the hefty Hufflepuff prefect. However, Theo's words hung over them like a dark cloud, and there was a slight tension in the air for the rest of the journey. Harry couldn't stop thinking about what his friend had revealed. He knew the Dark Arts were illegal, of course – everyone knew that. However, this was the first time he'd really considered what that meant. The father of one of his best friends was in prison for practising the form of magic he had himself taken a lesson in over Christmas. The form of magic exalted in the book he had, just five minutes ago, been reading.

It was the first time he'd ever felt threatened by the law.

Harry kept a tight hold on his book, and thought of the wand pressed firmly into the inner pocket of his robe, here it was neatly tucked alongside his own. He was going to need somewhere to hide it.

* * *

_February 3rd 1992_

* * *

 

Draco sighed loudly as Binns began his fourth long spiel about the records of the Goblin War of 1328. To his chagrin, his friends took no notice.

Blaise and Theo were playing an enchanted version of hangman in front of him, he didn't really care to know what Crabbe and Goyle were doing behind him and Harry, yet again, was looking at that stupid Dark Defences book. For the past month, since they'd arrived back at school, Harry never seemed to put down the thing, spending all his time frowning down at it. He was becoming very withdrawn, and Draco was beginning to feel ever so slightly neglected. Harry, after all, was his best friend, and he should be paying attention to him, not a boring old wad of paper.

He sighed again, even more loudly, but all this did was attract the attention of Longbottom, who looked between the Slytherins nervously. Draco was seriously contemplating burning Harry's stupid book when something caught his interest across the room – Weasley and Finnegan were exchanging notes.

He watched as they passed the note back and forth under the desk, scribbling furiously on it and casting long looks at Binns in between – that was probably their pitiful attempt at being covert. Fortunately for them, Binns was so completely unmindful of his class that it was conceivable they could hold a very rowdy gobstones tournament at the teacher's desk and the ghost wouldn't notice. After writing a particularly long message, Ron passed the note to Finnegan with a raised eyebrow, and a devious thought passed through Draco's mind. He smirked, pulling his wand from his pocket and lazily pointing it at the slip of parchment in Finnegan's hands.

"Accio note!" He hissed, and the parchment slipped from the Gryffindor boy's fingers and began to float across the room. Weasley and Finnegan whipped their heads around in shock, only for theirs eyes to widen in horror as they saw exactly where their note was headed. Draco grinned at them nastily. Other students began watch them, hoping the class was about to become mildly more interesting.

"Neville! Grab it!" Weasley shout-whispered. Longbottom shot a look at Draco, but was instantly cowed by his dark, malevolent sneer. Finnegan snarled something unintelligible at the big-eared boy, and he shrunk back into his seat even further. Parvati Patil lunged for it but missed, and it was then out of the reach of any Gryffindors. The note drifted over the head of Pansy Parkinson, who exchanged a grin with Draco. Weasley was now attempting to summon the parchment back to him, but he clearly either did not know the accio charm or simply couldn't perform it effectively, so the parchment continued its long, drawn-out journey towards Draco, until it drifted down to land on his desk soundlessly.

Shooting another leer at Finnegan and Weasley, he slowly stroked his fingers up and down the paper in an exhibitionistic manner. The two Gryffindors glared back contemptuously, looking almost white in the face. For a moment it looked as if Weasley was going to launch himself across the room, but Dean Thomas quickly reached across from the desk behind to grab his arm, shaking his head. Draco wasn't really sure why – there really was absolutely no possibility of Binns reacting at all, or even realising anything had happened – but he was nonetheless a little relieved. Draco may be infinitely more gifted than the ginger boy magically speaking, but Weasley was unusually tall for his age. As intellectually superior as Draco may be, he wouldn't take his chances with him in a fistfight.

He opened the note with little interest. The fun was in taunting the Gryffindors rather than actually discovering what they had been discussing. Nevertheless, in order to provoke them properly once the lesson was over he would have to read the contents, so Draco valiantly committed himself to the task. He grimaced as he immediately recognised Weasley's violently ugly scrawl – had the boy never had calligraphy lessons? Finnegan's writing was marginally neater, but his spelling was atrocious – 'worried' was spelt as 'woried', and 'trouble' had been repeatedly written as 'troble'. Draco supposed these failings made for reasonable ammunition , but they weren't quite biting enough – they were pretty normal mistakes for eleven-year olds.

His eyes scanned the page, his face taking on an expression of disgust as he saw the name Hagrid – leave it to the Gryffindors to keep such terrible company. Could the oaf even talk? Draco wouldn't bet on it – according to his father the groundskeeper was a half-giant, and giants weren't exactly known for their conversational skills. Although, if this note was anything to go by, Weasley and Finnegan probably didn't require much conversational stimulation.

Suddenly, something caught his eye – 'dragon' – written in Finnegan's hand. Shocked, his eyes trailed back up the page, and he realised that Weasley had been writing the word for quite some time, it has just been disguised by his virtually illegible writing. Dragon? What in Merlin's name were they doing that involved a dragon?

His eyes flew over the text once again, and this time he paid it his full attention. He drank in every sentence: What a bloody nightmare...If anyone finds out Hagrid will be in loads of troble…Taking a dragon egg from a bloke dressed like a dementor seems pretty ruddy mad.

Draco blinked at the paper.

A dragon egg. The oaf Hagrid had a dragon egg.

It was so absurd that his immediate thought was that perhaps the Gryffindors were actually pulling some elaborate conspiratorial trick on him, but one glance over at their aghast faces told him otherwise. What was written on this piece of parchment must be, to the best of Finnegan and Weasley's knowledge, true.

A jubilant grin spread slowly across his face. He held, in his hands, the key to achieving so many wonderful things; the firing of the half-wit groundskeeper, perhaps even the expulsion of the two most prominent Gryffindors in their year. He, Draco, the Malfoy heir, might get a Weasley expelled.

It was precisely at the moment this glorious thought danced dazzlingly through his mind that the parchment in his hands caught fire. Draco didn't immediately notice – caught up in his marvellous daydream as he was – but as soon as he was alerted to the danger by Pansy's terrible screech of terror, he leapt from his seat with a scream of his own, flinging the flaming paper away from him. In front of him Blaise and Theo abandoned their game of hangman to launch themselves onto their desks, and even Harry reared away from the burning note, wide-eyed, his book clutched to his chest. It was one of the Carrow twins who had the presence of mind to actually extinguish the flames by casting a swift aquamentai.

"Is everything okay over there?" Professor Binns droned from the front of the room, surprising everybody by breaking off from his lecture.

"No it is not! Weasley just tried to set me on fire!" Draco shrieked, thrusting an accusing finger at the redheaded boy. He wasn't actually sure it had been Weasley, but the taller boy's next comment confirmed it:

"Not you! The note, and only because you stole it!"

"Note?" Professor Binns intoned, and Ron nodded furiously until Seamus kicked him in the shin, at which point his face went bright red and he ducked his head, realising he'd just confessed to breaking a school rule.

"And why did you take the note Malcolm?"

It took Draco a couple of seconds to realise Binns was addressing him, and a couple more to recover from the fact the man had just forgotten his name.

"I thought I should confiscate it sir, because I could see you were occupied with your thoughts on the historiography of the Goblin Wars—"

You talk such bullshite Malfoy!"

"Fibbius, swearing is not permitted in school classrooms." The Professor addressed a fuming Seamus Finnegan, as the Slytherins hid their smiles. "And then this boy," he waved a hand at Ron, "tried to set you on fire."

"That's exactly right professor. Its lucky he has such poor aim—"

"I was aiming for the note!"

"Don't interrupt me Weasley!" Draco hissed, eyes narrowed.

"Settle down please, settle down…very well, Malcolm, five points from each of you," he gestured vaguely towards the incredulous Gryffindor boys, "for not paying attention, and for attacking a fellow student. And for swearing…yes."

"Professor!" The Gryffindor boys both gasped at once, but Binns was already droning over them:

"…It was, of course, Bertie Smallfeather's account of the battle of Hogheath that told us it was actually Bogwart of Hampshire who led the Seventh Goblin Battalion of the West Valley, rather than Mortwagger of Hertfordshire as was claimed by Yaric of the Mount…"

Draco maintained a dignified silence for the rest of the lesson, exchanging smug little smiles with whichever Slytherin caught his eye, and occasionally miming stroking a large, invisible egg shaped object to Finnegan and Weasley, who looked both furious and worried. However, to Draco's great annoyance, there was one person who still seemed almost completely oblivious to what had just happened – the boy sitting next to him. For Harry was once again looking at the bloody book. If Draco hadn't earlier seen him react to the fire, he would have thought the boy hadn't noticed anything happening at all.

* * *

Harry did his best to pay attention as they sat down at the Slytherin table for lunch. Draco was apparently still riding off the high from his victory over the Gryffindors in History of Magic, and was grinning smugly around at them as he helped himself to salad. But even as he thought about his friend, his mind slipped back to the book in his pocket. It was a constant presence in his mind: he only wished he understood the bloody thing. He was half tempted to give up, but could not face the idea of failing so spectacularly. Especially when he thought about Mr. Malfoy's words: "Amoretti thought you were quite the talent." Remembering the feeling of dark magic, he shivered.

"Harry?" He looked up, startled from his reverie only to see his three friends staring at him. He internally pinched himself – he'd tuned out yet again.

"Sorry, what?"

Draco's eyes narrowed, a sneer lifting the corner of his mouth. "You could at least pretend to listen."

Sensing that Draco was about to have a tantrum, Blaise cut in: "We were just talking about that note Weasley and Finnegan were passing. Draco says they were talking about a Dragon egg - that half-giant groundskeeper has one."

Harry's eyes widened in disbelief, as he turned to Draco. "He has a Dragon egg?"

Draco still looked put out, but answered nonetheless: "Yes - as you'd know, if you'd been listening."

"Where?"

"From what I saw in the note, he's keeping it in that dilapidated shack he calls a house. So, I'm going to go and take it this afternoon."

This time they all gaped at the blonde boy in shock. "What do you mean 'take it'?" Theo's voice was hard, but Draco didn't take any notice.

"I'm going to take it. Steal it." A little wide smirk spread across his face. "Imagine their faces when they realise—"

"Don't be an idiot Draco, what in Merlin's name are you going to do with a Dragon egg? Besides, they know you've seen the note! As soon as they notice it's gone they'll know it was you!" Blaise was incredulous, but Draco only sneered back, irritated that his friends seemed to be rallying against him.

"And what are they going to do about it? It's not as if they can report me, they'd have to admit to having the thing in the first place, which would only get that great oaf fired!"

Theo shook his head exasperatedly. "Dragon eggs require care Draco, you can't just stow it in your trunk – they need to be constantly heated so that the Dragon can build up the energy to break through the shell—"

"Don't talk to me like I'm a moron! I know what I'm doing – and if neither of you will help Harry will – Harry!" Harry was once again not paying attention, staring at the table with a far-away look in his eyes. He started when Draco snarled loudly. "Fine. It's not as if I need your help anyway." He flew up out of his seat glaring at them all, and then flounced out of the hall.

Blaise groaned, dropping his head against the table. "I can't believe this."

* * *

In the end, all four of the boys ended up trekking down to the groundskeeper's hut that evening, having followed Weasley and Finnegan out of the great hall after dinner. In the darkness they could barely see each other - the night was cloudy, and there was no moon or starlight to help them on their way. They stumbled over rocks, tufts of grass and their own robes, and at one point Harry went flying unceremoniously into Blaise's back, both of them ending up in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Harry had been hoping to spend more time reading that evening, but after Draco's little hissy fit they had all been forced to accompany him so that they wouldn't have to put up with his sullen behaviour for all the foreseeable future. Draco Malfoy knew how to hold a grudge.

Harry hissed as he stubbed his toe on something, and Blaise sniggered. Theo shushed them immediately, and they carried on in silence down the slope towards the small hut, from which yellow light blazed.

When they were in a fifty-foot radius of the hut, Draco suddenly dived behind a nearby rock, beckoning them all over to him. They formed a tight huddle.

"Blaise, you're going to create a diversion, so the rest of us can search the hut—"

"No way, I want to come inside!"

"Well since this is my thing, you'll do as I say."

Blaise puffed up angrily: "I don't take orders from you Malfoy—"

"Oh for Merlin's sake I'll create the distraction…" Theo interrupted them with a roll of his eyes.

Draco turned to Blaise with a hiss. "Thanks Theo, even though you would have been much better at helping us search quietly than Blaise—"

"Oh, like you're any good at being silent Draco! Your about as subtle as Weasley—"

"Guys can we just get on with it?" Harry groaned. "I have things to do back at the castle—"

Draco turned on the black-haired boy immediately. "Oh, don't tell me, it's that stupid book again isn't it! The great Potter, too busy to help a friend—"

"Oh come off it Draco—"

"Shut up all of you!" Theo's words were somewhere in between a snarl and a whisper, and they all went quiet at the tall boy's anger immediately. Theo was the sort of person who was rarely angry, so when he was, they paid attention. He jabbed a finger irately down at the hut: "Look."

There, down at the hut, two dark shapes were cast across the light streaming from the door of the hut, which was now wide open – two people. It had to be Finnegan and Weasley, setting off briskly up the slope into the darkness, back towards the school.

The four Slytherins crouched behind the rock, stock-still, watching the two dark silhouettes make their way up the hill in their direction. As they drew closer, they could hear low, hushed voices, and the boys strained to hear. The words were at first indistinguishable, but as the two figures got nearer and nearer, they recognised the familiar Irish drawl of Seamus Finnegan, and recognised the other voice as well – Weasley. They all listened as hard as they could, catching the words 'Hagrid' and 'egg' and 'Slytherins' several times, until they finally caught a few whole sentences:

"I'll send that letter to Charlie tonight."

"Nah, wait till tomorrow morning mate. There's no need to rush – no one's going to find it now."

"I suppose. Thank Merlin I burned that note."

"Yeah. I—" Then the Gryffindor boys were well past them, and their conversation once again faded into unintelligible murmurs.

Harry span around with a quizzical look on his face, as soon as he was sure they were out of earshot. "Does any one have any clue who Charlie is?" To his surprise, all three of his friends nodded back grimly.

"One of the older Weasley boys." Blaise said. "One of them works with Dragons – I bet it's that one. Either they're asking for advice, or they're trying to send the thing away."

Theo nodded. "Yes, almost definitely. Now that they know we know they can't risk Hagrid keeping it at Hogwarts, even if they have destroyed our evidence." They all turned cautiously to Draco, wary of his reaction to this new development, but to their surprise he was grinning, his eyes fixed on the castle.

"Draco?" Harry ventured, and the blonde boy's grin widened even further as he turned to speak to them.

"I think we're going to need Spartacus."

They all exchanged slow grins.

* * *

_February 4th 1992_

* * *

 

Spartacus, Draco's handsome, black feathered eagle owl, soared regally into the Great Hall the next morning, a letter clutched in its beak. The four boys exchanged excited looks, and Draco fed the owl a meaty piece of bacon as the slightly crumpled letter was dropped beside his plate.

They all leaned over to check the address written on the envelope, and smirked at what they saw:

Charlie Weasley

Central European Dragon Keep

Romania

They all cast quick looks at the Gryffindor table, but Finnegan and Weasley were absorbed in conversation with Dean Thomas, and were looking completely at ease. They seemed to have no idea that their letter had been just intercepted, and the owl that had been carrying it was probably lying in a field in a critical condition – as far as owls went, Spartacus was a bit of a brute.

Draco tore open the envelope and began to read, Theo peering over his shoulder. After a few seconds or so he passed it across to Harry and Blaise, who then also read the surprisingly short note:

Dear Charlie,

I need your help. Hagrid has gotten hold of a Dragon egg. The Slytherins have found out, and if they show anyone Hagrid will be fired and we might be expelled. Can you take it?

From Ron

(Your brother)

They all exchanged amused looks, and Draco sneered. "You know there's too many of them when they have to remind each other that they're related." They all sniggered for a bit – the animosity of the previous day had long since faded, and after their little nightly excursion they were now all quite excited about the whole egg-related adventure. Theo pulled a blank piece of parchment out from his pocket, along with a bright purple quill.

"We might as well write the reply now, and – assuming that Spartacus has done a number on Weasley's owl," Spartacus ruffled his dark feathers proudly as he polished off a second piece of bacon, " we can get one of the Hogwarts ones to deliver it to him tomorrow morning."

Blaise wrinkled his nose. "Won't that be a bit fast? It is meant to be going to Romania and back—"

"You're forgetting that this is Weasley we're talking about – he'd never notice a small detail like that. Now: Dear Ron, " Theo dictated, and the purple quill darted across the parchment, printing the letters so neatly that Harry thought they looked as if they'd been printed off a computer. "Don't worry, I can help you out as there is currently room in the Dragon nursery." Harry snorted, but Theo ignored him. "You must bring the egg to the astronomy tower at ten o'clock on Friday night, concealed within a heated crate. I will pick it up at half-past ten, but you must be back in your dorm by then. I will be bringing the head dragon tamer with me, who doesn't know students are involved. If he finds out things could get messy, so he can't see you. I'll leave a message to you saying 'Yes' if the rescue mission is successful, so you will know everything went well. Remember – Friday at 10pm. All the best: Charlie. Finite." The quill dropped neatly to the table and Theo inspected the note before passing it around for approval. They all nodded, and so he quickly sealed the note in an envelope, using the quill once more to address the letter to Ron Weasley, Gryffindor House, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He then stowed the letter neatly into his bag.

"Now all we've got to do is take it."

* * *

_February 5th 1992_

* * *

 

Severus Snape sat down rigidly, perching himself on the edge of the padded seat.

"You wished to speak with me, Headmaster?"

The wizened old wizard in front of him smiled warmly, blue eyes twinkling. ""Yes, Severus, I did. I am sorry to disturb you so soon after dinner, but I have come to an decision concerning a matter that is of some importance to both of us."

Snape's face was as cold and impassive as ever: he was giving nothing away. "Oh?"

The Headmaster steeped his fingers together, leaning back in his chair. "It has been some time, Severus, since we last spoke of Harry Potter." Snape remained as stiff as a board. "You will remember, of course, that discussion?"

Snape inclined his head sharply. "I do."

"Wonderful." The Headmaster paused for a moment, and waved his hand, conjuring a large tea set. "Tea?"

"No."

"As you wish." Smiling cheerily, Dumbledore proceeded to pour himself a cup, adding a splash of milk and a lump of sugar. "I believe Severus, that the time has come for Harry and I to have a little chat." The elderly wizard stirred his tea, looking into the black eyes of his potions professor. "I have been heeding your advice, Severus, for several months now, and – excellent as it was – I believe Harry is now very much settled into school life. The time is right for me to approach him."

"I see." Snape remained expressionless, seemingly indifferent.

"I thought, however, it would be prudent to speak with you before hand, given your experience with him. After all, it is essential that we get off on the right foot. As I have impressed on you many times before, it is crucial to the success of the cause that Harry and I establish good relations." The Headmaster took a sip of his tea. "The other professors have told me he is a complex personality."

"He is as complex a personality as any eleven year old," Snape drawled, his eyes sharp, and Dumbledore chuckled pleasantly.

"He does not resemble his parents at all?"

"There are superficial similarities," Snape paused for a moment, "his appearance; his aptitudes," The side of Snape's mouth pulled up in a slight sneer, "but barely. In terms of his character, Potter is very much his own person. In that respect I have noticed no striking similitude to either his father," The sneer deepened, "or Lily."

Dumbledore regarded his ex-student over the ridges of his half-moon glasses. "And you believe these differences to be the result of his upbringing?"

There was a pause, before Snape replied: "Perhaps. Such circumstances always have their consequences, as you are aware Headmaster."

Dumbledore sighed, his expression troubled. There was silence between them for several minutes, whilst the Headmaster seemed lost in thought. Snape, on the other side of the desk, was as stiff and pokerfaced as ever. Dumbledore took a long sip of tea, before breaking the silence.

"I have of late, Severus, been entertaining several very disturbing thoughts. You are aware, I understand, of the unhappy ends that his relatives met?" Snape nodded with the same sharpness as he had before, but there was something in his air that belied his piqued interest – he leaned forward fractionally. "And you do not think it suspicious?"

"I was under the impression that his Aunt and Uncle died of the same disease – an unfortunate coincidence, perhaps, but not particularly suspicious."

"Yes, that what is the final muggle report on the matter concluded. However, I have been doing some research into the matter myself, and I have made a discovery that is somewhat disquieting. It seems that the report that was eventually released was intended to allay the fears of the public – the case attracted some media coverage at the time – and it was also a lie. It appears that those in charge of examining the bodies never identified a disease – no virus, no bacterial infection – their bodies were wasted but there was no evidence of illness."

Snape looked at the older man with assessing eyes. "You believe these were magical deaths?"

Dumbledore smiled weakly at him. "That is my belief – and my fear."

Snape tilted his head slightly to the left, then his forehead creased, an expression of incredulity passed over his sharp features. "Surely, Headmaster, you are not implying that Potter was responsible for the demise of his aunt and uncle?" Dumbledore nodded gravely. "Why on earth would the boy want to kill his family?" The older wizard sighed wearily at this, looking every year his age, before replying.

"The original seed of my concern was sown several months ago. I had a meeting with the man you met the day I sent you and Hagrid to tell Harry of his place at Hogwarts – a Mr. Jones, I believe. He shared some information with me that might shed some light on just that. You see, back in the April of 1986, after Harry and his cousin were taken in by social services, those who were left in charge of the house made some disturbing discoveries. There was a significant amount of evidence that Harry had been mistreated by his relatives."

Snape tilted his head slightly to the left. "And what was this evidence?"

"They found a mattress set up as a bed in the cupboard under the stairs, and several toys. When questioned Harry said that this was his bedroom, and also shared several other pieces of potentially disturbing information – he cooked and cleaned for the family frequently, he was never bought new clothes or toys and he was often referred to by them in such terms as 'boy' and 'freak'. He was also reported to be severely malnourished. I'm sorry to burden you with such unpleasant knowledge, Severus, on account of your affection for Lily, but I feel it is my duty to share it with you." Snape's lip curled, but he gave no verbal response. "It also appears that Dudley, Harry's cousin, was hugely spoilt. He had two bedrooms, whilst Harry had a cupboard, and he was reported to be worryingly overweight. Now, if we bring these disturbing facts together it is possible to see just why Mr. Potter would have wanted rid of his relatives: it is even understandable. A neglected, even abused child, rejected by a family who gave their own son so, even too much."

Snape watched him coldly, and there were several minutes of silence before he spoke. "I can believe Potter was neglected – the evidence is there in his behaviour, and I am familiar with Petunia's character." He sneered. "But even so, do you truly believe the child to be capable of murder?"

"We all have darkness within us Severus – children especially are victim to it; they have not yet developed a keen sense of what is right and what is wrong. It is also possible he caused the deaths subconsciously and is unaware of what he was doing, but that is unlikely. In my experience, which I must immodestly say is quite vast," Snape snorted, and Dumbledore smiled briefly, "killing requires intent."

"You seem to be forgetting, Headmaster, that the boy was six years old, and he could not have known the Avada Kedavra curse. To kill even with that curse is challenging for the most powerful of wizards, but to kill without it, and at the age of six would surely be impossible!"

"It would require great power, yes. But Harry is destined to defeat the Dark Lord. If there is anyone with power great enough to murder with no curse and at the age of six, we might suppose it was him."

Snape scoffed. "There is no doubt Potter is talented. Perhaps even the most magically gifted in his year, but I have seen no evidence he holds that degree of power. Nor that he is a murderer. The assumptions you are making, Headmaster, are not only wild but also dangerous—"

"That, my dear boy, is why I am making them only to you." Snape sneered. "However, they are not quite so wild as they might now seem. You see, there is more evidence. Two main pieces, in fact, which support my theories. The first is the disquieting fate of Mrs Marge Dursley and her nephew: Harry's cousin Dudley. You were aware of their deaths?"

This time, frowning, Snape shook his head.

"Mrs Dursley was Harry's Aunt – not by blood, however – she was the sister of Mr. Vernon Dursley. She took custody of Dudley immediately after her brother's decease, but refused to take Harry, who was left in the care of social services. I think we may assume she felt the same way about him as his Aunt and Uncle did." Dumbledore exhaled, leaning back in his chair with a distant look in his eyes. "Just over a month later, she burned to death in a house fire, which also irreparably injured her young nephew Dudley Dursley. It is thought that he will not live past fifteen."

Snape tapped his chin, but his face remained impassive. "It is a striking coincidence, Headmaster, that is undeniable. However, to say that Potter caused it – he would have been under the supervision of the care workers, located several miles away, and how would he even have known where they lived?"

"I have given this all thought Severus." Dumbledore sighed. "Some further investigation at the orphanage revealed that, from the time he arrived until his departure for Hogwarts last summer, Harry often snuck out of the home into the surrounding town, often for hours at a time. Marge Dursley's house, located just four miles away, would not have been unreachable on one of these trips, especially when we consider the ample amount of public transport available in that area of Surrey. As for the address, it was stored in Harry's file. As Mr. Jones told me, children regularly break into his office to get a hold of their files – it is common practise, I hear, in such institutions – and borne out of an entirely natural sense of curiosity. It is more than probable Harry had accessed his file before the point at which the fire took place, and he procured the address from it."

Snape exhaled sharply, his expression severe. "Your argument relies on links which are far too tenacious to qualify your condemnation, Headmaster."

"So far, perhaps. However, this last piece of evidence may change your mind Severus. It concerns a little girl called Frieda." Dumbledore stood, and turned behind him to open a tall cabinet. From within it he withdrew a small, stone basin. "This time, my friend, I believe it is best to see the evidence for yourself." He drew a small bottle from his pocket, in which floated a golden thread. He tipped it into the basin, where it spiralled, becoming clear. Snape stood, and with a fluid and practised movement, dove headfirst into the basin. Dumbledore followed.

* * *

_7th February 1992_

* * *

 

The egg was large, black and glittering in the firelight. Draco ran his fingers over the smooth, warmed shell, his eyes bright. The mission to retrieve their prize had gone off without a hitch. They had collected it without issue, and then had managed to levitate the large crate between them, thankfully meeting neither Filch nor his local companion Mrs Norris on their way back to their common room, which had been mercifully empty.

Their luck seemed almost unbelievable.

"Stop drooling over the bloody thing and bring it to the dorm!" Theo hissed urgently. "Anyone could come in and see it!" He had reason to be nervous – older Slytherins often relaxed in the common room into the early hours of the morning, and it was more than possible one would appear at any minute.

Draco's eyes narrowed as he whipped his head around to face the tall boy. "I'm not drooling Nott." Nonetheless, he followed his friends into the stone corridor leading to their dormitory, his arms wrapped tightly around the egg. "I'm appreciating." Their dorm was devoid of Crabbe and Goyle, and Theo locked the door behind them.

"So, when are we going to sell it?" Draco's head whipped around in shock at Harry's words, but Blaise and Theo exchanged thoughtful looks.

"I'd say as soon as possible," Theo said, biting his lip. "Best get it done with—"

"No way, we should wait and see what offers we can get – I'll owl my cousin Sebastian, he sells Fangweed on the black market—"

"We're not selling it!" Draco suddenly injected, a furious look on his face. Blaise scoffed.

"Well we can't keep it—"

"Yes we can!" Draco growled, "It's my egg and I say I'm keeping it—"

"Your egg? We all stole it—"

"It was my idea!" Draco was beginning to sound slightly hysterical. "It's going to be my familiar - I've already decided!"

There was a shocked silence, before Theo and Blaise broke out into peals of laughter. Harry looked between them, confused. "What's a familiar?"

"It's like a pet, but you can imprint on it magically," Theo broke off from his laughter, though Blaise was still sniggering. "Dragons can't be familiars because they're magical creatures, it only works with normal animals—"

"Don't mock me!" Draco rose up to his full height, his face flushed red with anger. "Just because ordinary wizards can't have a magical familiar doesn't mean that I can't!"

"Don't—"

"No, you don't – I'm keeping it, it's mine, and if any of you touch it you will rue the day you were born!" Draco hissed.

They all watched him in near disbelief as he set up the heated crate under the bed, tucking the egg inside it. Theo sighed, shaking his head in frustration:

"Draco, you are the biggest, stupidest brat in wizarding Britain."

Draco refused to speak to any of them after that, but by the next morning his silence had developed into long, very loud arguments with Theo about the egg. Draco was refusing point blank to get rid of it, whilst Theo was becoming increasingly worried about getting caught and expelled.

* * *

By nearly nine o'clock at night, Harry had finally managed to escape the squabbling in his dormitory. Hw was wandering the corridors of the school, trying to clear his head of the egg dilemma, which swiftly seemed to be getting out of hand.

He still wasn't making much headway with the book - so far, pretty much all he'd managed to figure out was that dark magic was very old. Honestly he felt just about ready to bash his head against the wall in frustration. All he could do was console himself with the fact that when Edmund Lear wrote The Darkest of Arts: A Theory and the History his intended audience were probably not children. Amoretti must have been having a laugh when he recommended it.

Yet, Harry wanted desperately to know more. Dark magic was the most brilliant, fascinating thing he'd ever encountered. Surely, he thought, as his eyes trailed across the flagstone floor, there must be better ways to learn about it. He thought of his second wand, buried deep in his trunk back in the dormitory. When he'd held it, he'd understood how to perform dark magic instinctively. That was how Harry would like to learn – not by reading, or by listening, but by feeling. The sensory wonder of real, organic, dark magic, he thought, couldn't be conveyed in the dry pages of books.

Sighing, he wandered through the school corridors, ignoring occasional warnings about the impending curfew from the various portraits lining the walls. He found himself, thanks to a moving staircase, in an area he'd never been to before. He walked through the strange corridors, half-curious, half pre-occupied with dreamy thoughts.

He was jerked very unceremoniously from his reverie by walking into a large suit of armour, which crashed to the floor with an ear-splitting crash. Swearing, he spun around - the long shadow of a cat was projected onto the wall behind him: Mrs Norris was coming. He looked down at his watch – curfew was five minutes passed. Cursing, he wrenched open the nearest door and flung himself inside, shutting the door as quickly and quietly as he could behind him. With his ear pressed to the wall, he listened, and after a few minutes of waiting he heard footsteps – Filch, undoubtedly. They passed by the door, and then faded into the distance. He turned to rest his back against the oak, feeling his heart rate calm.

He was in a small, stony windowless room. Yet, the room was bright. He looked for candles, but he could see none – the light seemed to be coming from nowhere. In fact, the only object in the room was a tall object propped up against the far wall, and covered in a dark sheet.

Harry immediately wandered over to poke at it. What was it? There was only one way to find out – it was pretty ill advised to fiddle with things in a school like Hogwarts, but Harry never could resist the burn of curiosity. He pulled off the covering, to reveal – himself?

A mirror. A large, gilt framed mirror, with clawed feat, and an inscription across the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. Harry's brow furrowed – what language was that? The letters were familiar, but he had no idea what the words were. This mirror must come from somewhere very far away. A little disappointed with his find, he let his eyes drag over his familiar reflection; his face, his shirt; his arm; his hand—

He stepped back with a small gasp – the ring. Surely it couldn't be—it couldn't be—but it was, Harry would have recognised it anywhere – the thick, gleaming gold band, a delicate setting and that glittering, sharp black stone – it was undeniably that ring he had first seen so many years ago, as Vernon's present to Petunia. The sudden manifestation of his childhood obsession was shocking. Immediately he checked his real hand – but there was no ring, just his bare finger. He swallowed down his bitter disappointment, and instead examined the shiny, golden ring in the reflection.

It had been so long since he'd last looked at the shiny trinket, that he'd forgotten just how it made him feel – his face felt hot, his throat dry, his knees shaky. He forced himself to remember it was nothing but an illusion—

"Good evening, Mr. Potter." Harry swung around in panic, his heart burning, and saw the wizened, long-bearded figure of Albus Dumbledore standing by the door to the room.

"Headmaster," Harry gaped in disbelief – these were unfortunate circumstances under which to have your first interaction with the Headmaster of the school. "I didn't hear you come in sir—"

"That, my dear boy, is because I didn't mean for you to."

Harry swallowed, feeling uncomfortable. "Sorry sir, it must be time for curfew, I'll head back to my dormitory—"

"There is no need to rush back on my account, my boy." The old man's smile was warm, but only made Harry feel twitchy. The headmaster's eyes were heavy on him, and he felt like a pinned insect. When Dumbledore had been ignoring him, Harry had wanted him to take notice, but now that they were alone together he felt uneasy. He did not want to speak with the Headmaster. Unfortunately, he didn't have much of a choice.

"Thanks, Sir, but I really have got to get back – I've an essay to finish for tomorrow you see."

The Headmaster only smiled at him. "I must confess that surprises me, Harry. Tomorrow is, after all, a Saturday." Harry blushed hard at that.

Dumbledore walked closer. "I have heard good things about you, from your teachers, Harry."

Harry smiled tightly, though he only felt more ill at ease – did the teachers have meetings to discuss him? Or had just turned to him during a friendly chat in the staff room, where students would be a natural source of discussion? He wasn't sure. "Considering who your parents are, of course, it is not surprising you are bright. Your mother was always a model student." Harry's looked up, unable to hide his interest. "Your father, on the other hand, was forever in detention. He and his friends got up to all sorts of mischief."

"You knew my parents?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "Yes. I knew James and Lily well – I have seen more generations of witches and wizards pass through these walls than I care to say, my dear boy. With your parents, of course, our relationship was a little more personal than most." Harry cocked his head. "I suppose you are wondering why, Harry. Knowing as you do what happened to your parents, I do not think the answer will surprise you. We were allies in the resistance movement against Voldemort and his Death Eaters." Harry swallowed hard – of course, he should have known that. He knew Dumbledore was the head of the Light movement, and his parents had been too: that was why the Dark Lord killed them.

The clear stance his parents had taken against the dark side had never bothered him before – after all, Harry had never known his parents. However, there was something about this wizened old Headmaster, which suddenly made him feel guilty – disloyal. For a moment, Harry thought about what his parents would have made of his interest in the dark. He wondered what they looked like.

"If only you could have met them Harry. An extraordinary witch and an extraordinary wizard indeed." The Headmaster paused, before chuckling. "You look very much like them – Lily's face, but the rest of you is all James." Bright twinkling blue eyes bore down into him, and Harry quickly averted his eyes – Dumbledore was a manipulator, he had to remember that, and his parents couldn't be anything to him. He didn't even remember what they looked like.

There was silence for a few moments, and Dumbledore walked further into the room. "I see you have discovered the Mirror of Erised. An intriguing artifact indeed. Its origins are unknown, but it holds an ancient, and most dangerous power." He turned to gaze at Harry pointedly. "It shows us our heart's deepest desire."

Dumbledore's friendly chortle seemed to reverberate in Harry's very skull.

"It appears that, today, my heart's desire is a pair of socks – woolly of course, perfect for this bracing Scottish weather." The headmaster contemplated the mirror, but after a second or two, he turned to fix his gaze on his student. "I wonder Harry, what do you see?"

There was a tense energy in the air, as they watched each other. Harry kept his expression blank as he replied: "A scarf, headmaster." There was something thrilling in turning the older man's blatant lie back on him. Dumbledore did not rise to it. His expression remained convivial: his smile was still friendly.

"Very sensible Harry." There was silence for a minute or so, before he spoke again. "I'd better let you get back to your dormitory. However I'd very much like to meet with you again soon. Perhaps next week?"

"I'd be delighted sir." Harry's smile didn't reach his eyes, his shoulders obviously tense.

"Wonderful, my boy, very good. Off you go."

Harry swore under his breath as he ran back to his common room, not even bothering to look out for Filch.

He couldn't talk to Dumbledore again. He wouldn't.

The man knew too much – his parents, his schoolwork, Harry even suspected the man knew something of his interest in dark magic – or at least suspected it. After all, it would hardly be surprising. He might be the boy who lived, but he was also a Slytherin, and a Slytherin with connections to notoriously dark families. Notably the Malfoy's.

He threw himself through the entrance to the Slytherin common room, only to hit something – someone – big and solid. He looked up, with a sharp shock, into the hard eyes of Marcus Flint. Before he could say anything – even apologise – a large hand had seized the back of his robes, and he was being half dragged into the common room, where he was shocked to see his dorm mates standing in the middle of a circle of stony-faced fifth years – amongst them, Harry noticed, were the prefects Adrian Pucey and Winifred Tugwood.

It was then, with a horrified jerk in his gut, that Harry saw the large, wooden crate on the floor, half-opened: the egg.

"Finally joined us have you, Potter?" a tall, very skinny Slytherin boy Harry only knew by sight stepped forward, his bony face morphed into fury. "How good of you. We were just chatting, to your friends here, about this." He thrust an accusatory finger towards the crate on the floor. Harry felt sick with terror – the older Slytherins were bearing down on him in a manner so nerve-inducing he might have collapsed to the floor, had it not been for the hand still grasping the back of his robes.

"Don't bother trying to talk yourself out of trouble – you're little friends have already made that mistake." The boy continued, with a nasty sneer at Blaise who, Harry suddenly realised, was looking uncharacteristically shaky. "We already know the whole story. Well, overheard it anyway." Harry shot a panicked look at Draco and Theo, but both were looking at the ground. "Not from your friends Potter. From two Gryffindors." Harry's brow furrowed in conclusion.

"Outsmarted by two Gryffindors, and one of them a Weasley." Harry's eyes widened—no. It wasn't possible. They couldn't have been so stupid – Weasley and Finnegan couldn't have been so clever— "Pathetic." The fifth year spat, his voice disdainful, and his blue eyes burning with hot fury. "They were delighted with themselves, of course – they talked at length about how easy it was to mislead you, when you followed them down to that half-wit Hagrid's hut, by saying they were going to send a letter to "Charlie". How proud, how pleased you were with yourselves the next morning when you intercepted it and sent back a 'reply'. How stupid you were for taking the bait. They thought it was brilliant that they'd fooled you. After all, the Slytherins are meant to be the cunning ones." Harry felt numb. Not Weasley and Finnegan. "They thought they'd made a mockery of you. In fact, they thought they'd made a mockery of Slytherin house."

"Do any of you realise what they had planned?" The four first-years shook their heads small seventh-year girl with long, slanted eyes who spoke furiously. "I'll tell you, if its not already obvious. Once you had taken the egg they were going to report you, you were all going to be expelled, and Slytherin would be disgraced. What were you thinking?"

"Whatever it was, you weren't thinking like Slytherins. That much is clear." The blonde boy sneered contemptuously, towering over them, and Harry felt very, very small. "Fortunately, they were planning on reporting it tomorrow morning. By then, this egg will be long gone." They all exhaled in silent relief, but the faces around them were hard and cold, and Harry felt an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. "However, that is far from the end of this." He sneered down at them. "You have shown that you're undeserving of the title of Slytherin. Hereby you're all banned from our common room – the password will be changed tonight, and nobody will be sharing it with you. Yes, that means you no longer have access to your dormitory. Since we need Potter for the quidditch team and there is a game in two weeks, there will be no physical punishment – for now. But understand, from this point forward, you are effectively, apart from quidditch, excluded from Slytherin. You cannot sit at our house table, you cannot join our clubs and from now on you will not socialise with any of us. You may collect your belongings. After that you will not be a part of this house again until we feel you have redeemed yourselves." Harry wanted to say that that wasn't fair, surely it wasn't even possible, but the urge to not draw attention to himself was greater and he stayed silent.

"But where are we going to sleep?" Draco exclaimed, unable to stop himself, and the blonde boy shot him a glare so hateful Harry was almost surprised Draco didn't whimper.

"That's not my concern any more, Malfoy. None of you are." With that he turned, and gestured towards their dormitory. The quartet forlornly obeyed, shocked into disbelief. They had imagined, as soon as they realised what was going on, that they were would be punished. However, they had never thought, not for a second, that the punishment would be this. Surely the punishment didn't fit the crime? Then again, they had made fools of by Weasley and Finnegan. The most Gryffindorish of Gryffindors. Harry's ears burned.

They grabbed all their things as quickly as they could, desperate to escape the deathly repudiation of their housemates, who were frankly terrifying. They left the Slytherin dungeon, leaving behind their housemates and the egg, the source of all this trouble. Harry had no idea what they were going to do with it.

They stood in the cold corridor outside the now closed archway.

"Thanks, Draco. Thanks a lot." Theo's quiet voice shook with fury, but Draco was having none of it.

"Don't blame this on me. We all took part—"

"What happened to 'it's my thing' then?" snarled Theo, his eyes like slits, but feeling tired, and having had enough, Harry interrupted them.

"Not now. We're all tired—"

"Well unfortunately we haven't got anywhere to sleep!" Draco shriek-whispered, and Harry sighed exasperatedly, suddenly feeling like the mature one.

"We'll ask Snape – the house may have thrown us out, but he's still officially responsible for us."

"What if he's in on it too?" asked Blaise darkly. "Slytherins have never much been into the official ways of running things—"

"Well then we'll go ask Madam Pomfrey—"

"The hospital wing will be closed—"

"Well then we'll ask Dumbledore, alright?" They all looked at him in shock, but he only shrugged. Now the fear the older Slytherins had inspired was fading, he was beginning to feel utterly exhausted. "There will be somewhere in the school we can sleep, okay? Let's just go."

Shocked into submission by his sudden irritability, his friends silently followed him along the corridors to Snape's portrait, which was, ironically, a dragon. Harry woke the sleeping creature immediately by clearing his throat loudly, and it grumbled to life: "Curfew is passed. Go back to the common room."

"We've been thrown out." Harry deadpanned, and the dragon rolled its great eyes, before puffing.

"What did you do?"

"Hid a dragon egg." Harry replied flatly, and the Dragon's nostrils flared furiously. "It was perfectly safe." Sometimes a little dishonesty was necessary. "Don't tell anyone, by the way."

The beast stared at them through slitted yellow eyes, before stretching, and slinking out of the frame, yawning, and leaving a little trail of smoke.

"You shouldn't have said that!" A voice piped up behind him, but Harry ignored it. He had had more than enough of his friends for one day. In fact, he'd had enough of them to last a whole year.

The portrait hole swung open, to reveal Severus Snape, wrapped in a black silk dressing gown. The first years did their best not to gawp.

"Come in." Snape drawled, sounding bored, but his eyes were as sharp as ever, and surveyed each of them as they passed through his portrait hole. They were standing in an arched stone hallway, lit by candlelight, and strung along with doors. They stood awkwardly before their head of house, and Snape looked them over, his expression unreadable. "I understand you have been thrown out of the house. We will discuss it in the morning. For now, you will sleep in this room." He opened the door nearest to the portrait hall with a flick of his wand, which they saw contained two sets of bunk beds. "You will not enter any of the other rooms in my quarters without my express permission, with the exception of the bathroom which you may use as is needed. It is directly across the hall." With that, the man disappeared through the far door with a flourish of his dressing gown.

They all deposited their trunks at the bottom of their beds, and, after doing their teeth, all climbed into bed and switched out the light. Nobody spoke. Harry lay on his bed facing the wall, face pressed tightly into his pillow.


	6. I.vi Hitters and Quitters

_A/N_ : Thank you for all your kind reviews! Hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. 

 

* * *

Harry never heard of the dragon egg again. He imagined that the older Slytherins had somehow managed to sell it but he didn't dare enquire, for obvious reasons. The days following the banishment from the house were some of the worst Harry would ever experience at Hogwarts. As Snape had told the four boys the morning following the discovery of the egg, they would not be easily forgiven. He had admonished them harshly for their careless actions, but seemed to feel that their exclusion from the house was punishment enough. He was right: it was almost unendurable. They would be jinxed in the corridors by their housemates, with even the other first year Slytherins ignored them. They were too scared to eat at the house table or, in fact, go to any public place at all. They were living between the classrooms, the kitchens and Snape's quarters.

Theo was completely dismayed. He was silent nearly all the time, and was not speaking at all to Draco, who was back to his usual loud-mouthed self the next day. Despite the fact he attracted more jinxing than anyone else due to his brazen confidence and general air of incredible arrogance, Draco seemed immune to the effects of being bullied. In fact, he appeared to be bemused by it: "It's as if they've forgotten who I am – a Malfoy, for Merlin's sake! When my father finds out, they'll regret it. I've written to him, you know."

Harry was suffering fewer hexes than his friends (disgraced he may be, but no Slytherin wanted to risk the quidditch cup by injuring their seeker), but he was also taking the brunt of the cold-shouldering. As a member of the Slytherin quidditch team, he was forced to attend practise whenever Flint passed him a piece of parchment with a time on it. They didn't try to injure him in practise; after all, they knew he was not only the best but also the most important player on the team. However they made his life as hellish as they could. They would throw his clothes in the mud, and make pointed comments about everything from his performance to his appearance within his earshot. They excluded him from team games, and turned his showers cold. For a while, Harry put up with it – after all, he had been bullied constantly as a young child – but, just one day before the big match against Hufflepuff, things came to an unfortunate head.

As usual, the beaters Russell and Burle were making barbed comments within his earshot. Harry was flying several metres above them and trying to ignore them, whilst searching for the snitch, which he was finding unusually difficult.

"He's a feeble little maggot alright. He's almost as skinny as that cheap school broom."

They both sniggered loudly.

"Not to mention uncommonly short. I bet that's the muggle blood in him – apparently he's a halfie."

"Urgh." Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Burle's muscular shoulders give in a huge, exaggerated shudder. "I'd _hate_ having dirty blood."

"Yeah, so would I – I think I'd jump off the astronomy tower if I did. And _Gryffindors_ for parents! I've really got no idea how he washed up in Slytherin."

Harry left out a tiny snarl as he turned around, trying to catch sight of the snitch so he could escape, with no luck. He flew higher, but the beaters followed.

"You know, I heard he was raised in a muggle orphanage – can you imagine!"

"Perhaps he should go back."

Another bout of boisterous laughter, and then Russell spoke: "You have to feel almost sorry for him though, it must be hard to be at the bottom of the pile." Harry clenched his teeth, trying to block them out, but they were speaking as loudly as they could without shouting, as if they were performing in a theatre.

"He just doesn't really _belong_ , does he?"

Their cruel words rang in Harry's head, and he couldn't stand it anymore. He could feel himself shaking as he dived towards the ground, and he didn't know what with. Initially the rest of the team didn't pay him any attention – they probably assumed he had seen the snitch. He landed on the ground within seconds, and dropped the knobbly school broom next to him.

"What are you doing Potter?" He heard Flint roar from above him – Harry could picture the spittle flying from his hard mouth. He should have been scared, but he instead he felt the burn of defiance: if he was no longer a Slytherin, then he would no longer play for Slytherin.

" _I quit_!" He screamed back, with a power that surprised the rest of the players so much that he had almost reached the changing rooms by the time any of them reacted.

"You can't quit Potter!" Flint snarled from above him as he strode off the pitch, but Harry ignored him. He was in the changing room in seconds, and had his quidditch gear off and his school robes on by the time Flint came storming into the room, blocking the exit with his enormous bulk. "What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?"

"Leaving." Harry glowered. He was feeling a sudden burst of courage – it seemed that his Gryffindor blood was finally shining through.

"Do you know who you're talking to?" Flint growled, his eyes flashing. "Disrespect me, and you will rue the day you were born you little fucker."

"I'm not disrespecting you. I can leave. I'm not obligated to be a member of the team—"

"If you ever want to re-enter Slytherin you are." Flint sneered nastily, his eye twitching. "If you don't play in the game tomorrow, I swear to Mordred you never will be."

"That's fine by me." Harry bit back, raising his chin.

Flint glowered down at him furiously. "You're an insolent little shit, you know that? The boy-who-lived. You think you're better than us? Better than me?" The rhetorical question was a threat, and Flint stepped towards the smaller boy menacingly, his enormous fists clenched, but Harry refused to be intimidated.

Harry felt bold fire burning in his belly. "Maybe I do. As you've said so many times now, I'm not one of you." He narrowed his eyes as he spoke the last words, crossing his arms.

Flint bore down over him, eyes narrowed, looking furious, but suddenly his expression cleared. A sly smirk crept over his face. "That's all well and good, but you owe me Potter. Remember?"

Harry did remember. He would no doubt always remember his first ever encounter with another Hogwarts student. However he was no longer ignorant of the ways of wizarding debts. "I don't think I do, Flint. I never swore any oath indebting myself to you, remember? And since Slytherins aren't known for honouring their words alone..." Leaving the rest of the sentence hanging, he darted around the bulky quidditch captain before the older boy could react, and fled through the exit.

In that glorious moment, as he sprinted away from the pitch and up into the castle in the afternoon sun, Harry felt wonderful – he had stood up to the most frightening boy in the school, and as far as he was concerned he'd won. However, that split-second decision was to have consequences further reaching than he ever would have imagined. He had expected the curses in the corridors – but he was good enough at dodging that he was rarely ever actually hit. He had expected the verbal jibes as he walked between classes, but he had become very adept at letting them pass straight over his head. He had even expected the furious lecture from Snape, who had _strongly recommended_ he rejoin the team, but Harry stood firmly by his decision, and Snape had stopped.

What he had failed to anticipate, however, was the impact it would have upon his friends. As soon as they had heard, Theo and Blaise had implored him to rejoin the team, for all their sakes, but Harry had still refused – he couldn't go back, and he wouldn't. Theo had gotten so angry he'd actually thrown a book at him, before storming from the room. He had returned several hours later to pick up said book, collect his belongings, and then, without a word, he left again. It turned out, as Harry later discovered, that h had been let back into Slytherin. It seemed his housemates all but forgotten the egg affair in the wake of Harry quitting the team. Harry knew they were trying to hurt him by taking away his friends, and when Blaise followed Theo two days later, he had to admit they had succeeded.

The truth was, for a long time, he had been happily under the illusion that he had finally found a place in the world. He had come to a school of people who shared his strange gifts, and found friends. It was almost a shock to realise it, but his friends had been his life over the past six months – he felt had found a place where he felt he belonged. He had thought his friends would stand by him through anything. The problem, he supposed, was that he had far too little experience will real friends, and far too much with the kind you find in children's books.

It was rather ironic that the one who had been the root of it all was the only one who stood by him. Draco continued to act as if nothing had happened. Harry almost wondered if he was feeling a little bad, but he couldn't imagine that Draco had ever experienced guilt. Nevertheless, Harry had never appreciated him more. They sat next to each other in class, and spent breakfast and the lunch break together. Draco became Harry's only friend, as the Slytherins ostracised him and the other houses avoided him, and Harry, for all Draco's shortcomings, could now see one of his greatest attributes – his unfailing self-belief. Draco, unlike either Theo or Blaise, was not swayed by the judgement or actions of the other Slytherins, and he most definitely did not crave acceptance in the way they, and particularly Theo, did. Draco had no wish to end his friendship with the most famous boy in the wizarding world, whom he had called his best friend since they'd met. If anything, he was enjoying their new situation, as it meant he had Harry all to himself. There was no absolutely no question of who was Harry's closest friend, simply because he only had one.

However, the Slytherins, as the next step in their revenge campaign, accepted Draco back into the house. He was welcomed back into the common room, and whilst still spending most of the day with and sleeping with Harry in Snape's quarters, he often went back there after class to mingle unapologetically with Harry's abusers.

In the midst of all this animosity, Harry found refuge in the classroom. There he was protected from his classmates by the watchful eyes of his professors, and he found an outlet for his energy within his studies. His work became an outlet for his frustration. He asked for extra tuition from almost all his teachers who, delighted by his interest, taught him extra spells in little unofficial sessions when they had spare time, when he pushed himself as much as he could. In defence against the dark arts, Quirrell had actually started teaching him the basics of duelling, which Harry was ecstatic about. Ironically enough, he seemed to have a knack for Defence Against the Dark Arts, even more so than for other subjects. His interest in learning about wizarding combat was second only to his more general interest in dark magic. Even Snape begrudgingly handed him a few more advanced potions books. Harry knew the man was annoyed at his quitting of the team, but strangely he didn't seem too bothered by his ostracization from the house.

If daily life at Hogwarts was wearing, at least Harry could take immense pleasure in outperforming his housemates at every turn, which he did. It was a particular joy to watch Theo screw up his face every time Harry executed a spell perfectly on his first try, clearly desperate to ask him how he'd done it but not willing to risk his restored membership of Slytherin. Harry was fast becoming every teacher's favourite, much to the chagrin of his fellow Slytherins. However, he took less pleasure in the house points he was constantly awarded, and after a few weeks, to the annoyance of his housemates and the delight of everyone else, he asked them to stop. Obviously knowing something of the rift between Harry and the rest of his house, they didn't question the unusual request, although Snape refused to acquiesce to it, and had begun awarding him with ridiculous numbers of points to make up for those he knew Harry was refusing in other lessons.

It was strange now to be looking at Slytherin from the other side. He had always been critical of the other houses because they held Slytherin at arms length, and viewed it with suspicion. Now he couldn't help but feel there was good reason. Harry couldn't imagine the other houses targeting one of their own in the way Slytherin were targeting him. Slytherin was different.

* * *

_2nd March 1992_

* * *

 

It came as a surprise one morning when, just as Harry was about to enter charms with Draco, an older Gryffindor girl thrust a note into his hands:

_Harry,_

_I was hoping we could have that meeting we discussed a few weeks ago. I understand you have a busy afternoon schedule, so I was hoping we could meet this evening. I am expecting you at 8.30: if that is inconvenient please come and see me so we can reschedule. I look forward to our meeting with anticipation._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

_P.S. I like Sherbet Lemons_

Draco, whom Harry had long since told about the incident with the mirror, snorted over his shoulder. "He is desperate, isn't he? It's almost pitiable. And why in Merlin's name is he talking about sherbet lemons? That man is absolutely mad."

"Draco, why don't you sit next to me today?" Pansy called, and Harry rolled his eyes. It seemed that Pansy had developed a serious crush on Draco since Christmas, and she spent all her time trying to capture his attention.

"I don't want to." Draco replied with a slight sneer as he took his seat next to Harry. Draco definitely did not have a crush on Pansy.

The day passed as usual, and after Draco had disappeared off to the Slytherin common room, and Harry had taken dinner in the kitchens, he made his way up the many staircases to the headmaster's office, taking directions from the various portraits dotted along the way. Soon enough he arrived in front of the large stone gargoyle he knew protected the entrance to Dumbledore's office.

"Sherbet Lemon?" he asked, almost hoping it would be wrong, but the gargoyle twisted aside with an unpleasant grating noise; it's wings lifting to reveal a spiral staircase. Sighing, Harry trudged up, and knocked on the hefty wooden door he found at the top.

"Come in," A wizened voice called out from behind it, but before Harry could touch the door again it had already swung open.

Harry tried not to gawk as he entered. Portraits full of sleeping witches and wizards in regal dress lined the walls, which towered up two storeys to a spherical skylight that illuminated the room below with white light. Glass-fronted cabinets displayed bottles filled with bright liquids, and bookshelves were stacked into every corner. Across the entire office spindle-legged tables were strung, topped with whirring and steaming silver instruments. At the far end, in front of a curved staircase that led up Merlin knows where, a honey-wooded desk stood. Behind it sat the white-bearded old headmaster, his hands spread in a gesture of welcome.

"Do sit down Harry," Dumbledore called, smiling benignly at him and gesturing to the cushioned chair positioned exactly opposite his own, more opulent one. Harry obeyed, sitting down awkwardly on the edge of his seat. "I am glad you could make it – I trust you are well?"

"Yes, sir." Harry replied politely. "And you?"

"As well as a man of my age can be, my dear boy," the headmaster chuckled, conjuring a pot of tea. "Tea?"

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself. This variety is called Golden Breeze – it's taken from the leaves of an enchanted evergreen tree only found in the far reaches of south-eastern China – it has a beautifully delicate favour, with an ever so slight hint of dragon-fruit." Harry hummed, his eyes fixed on an empty perch behind the headmaster. "Ah. I see you have caught sight of my familiar Fawkes' perch. You might have heard of him." Dumbledore shot Harry a questioning look, but the boy shook his head, a curious expression on his face. "Then hopefully he will return from his hunting trip in time for you to meet him – he is a rather special bird you see: a phoenix."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "A phoenix? Phoenix's are real?"

Dumbledore chuckled warmly. "Yes my boy, quite real, as you shall see if we have the luck to catch him before you leave."

"But I thought it was impossible to have a magical familiar?"

"It is thought impossible to bond with some magical creatures, yes – A Dragon, for instance," Harry swallowed, averting his gaze, "has never been bonded to a witch or wizard, at least, to our knowledge. However, there are some breeds of magical creature that it is possible to form a familiar bond with – phoenixes, for example. My case, although rare, is not singular. Throughout our history there have been several instances of phoenixes forming familiar bonds. However, there is a key difference between a bond with a regular familiar and a magical one. A magical familiar chooses the wizard, rather like a wand, whereas a regular familiar is chosen by the wizard."

"So why did Fawkes choose you?" Immediately after he'd spoken, Harry bit his lip – he hadn't meant for the question to sound so blunt, but Dumbledore didn't seem affronted, continuing to smile.

"I met Fawkes on a night long ago. Around half a century past, I swore to defeat a dark wizard who rose to power, a wizard whose name you may have heard."

"Voldemort?"

"No, no. Voldemort was still a boy at the time. This wizard was a German, known as Grindelwald. He was immensely powerful, and active mainly on the continent. On the day that he released a statement declaring his intention to conquer Britain, as he had already done to most of mainland Europe, I resolved to defeat him. I could not let his threaten my country. I had just embarked upon my career as a teacher here at the time, and the future of my students was – is – very important to me. It was then that Fawkes and I were bonded."

"Fawkes wasn't a fan of Grindelwald, then?"

Dumbledore smiled serenely. "Phoenixes are notoriously light creatures. They do not abide by dark magic. Their aversion to it, in fact, could be likened to an allergy."

Harry's brow furrowed – surely that couldn't be right. After all, when he had been in Ollivanders shop the wand maker had told him that Voldemorts wand was the brother of his – a wand made of phoenix feather. If phoenixes were allergic to dark magic, why would a wand with a core of phoenix feather choose a master so inclined to the dark? However, he thought it would be best not to mention the fact he and Voldemort had brother wands to Dumbledore – the man was suspicious enough of him as it was. Anyway, there was something else preying on his mind – something Dumbledore had said had caught his attention.

"So sir, if you were a teacher at the same time as Voldemort was a boy, does that mean you taught him?"

Dumbledore froze for a moment, seemingly caught off guard, before relaxing slowly. He leaned back in his seat, his expression unreadable, and stroked his beard with a long-fingered hand. "Yes. I did teach Voldemort when he was a student – or, as he was known then, Tom Riddle." The Headmaster's eyes seemed far away before he looked back at Harry. "Why do you ask, my boy?"

Harry shrugged. "Morbid curiosity, I suppose." Dumbledore stared at him, and he suddenly felt very uncomfortable. "People never talk much about Voldemort, and I get why. It's just," he let his breath hitch, and looked down at his feet, "sometimes I want to know more about him - the man who killed my parents." As expected, the parent card worked a treat, and he was certain that Dumbledore's eyes misted momentarily with tears.

"Of course Harry. It's completely understandable."

There was silence for a moment, and Harry bravely ventured another question. "What was he like at school?"

Dumbledore paused, before answering. "He appeared to be a model student. Top of all his classes; prefect; head boy; favourite of both the students and professors."

"Was he a favourite of yours sir?"

"No, not of mine. There was something about him – something dangerous."

"So you always think he was destined to become a Dark Lord?"

Dumbledore watched him closely. "We all make our choices, my boy. We chose our own destinies. Just as I chose to become a teacher, Tom Riddle chose to become a monster." Harry shifted, casting his gaze across the room to a cabinet filled with little golden bottles. "Let us not dwell on such dark thoughts, Harry. I must confess, that I was hoping to discuss something in particular with you when I called you here tonight."

Harry had a feeling he knew exactly what Dumbledore wanted to talk about. "What, sir?"

"I understand that you have run into some difficulties with your house. It was recently brought to my attention that, for the past month, you have been living out of Professor Snape's quarters."

"Yes, sir." He _knew_ it – how had Dumbledore found out?

"From what I have gathered, the reason is that you have gotten on the wrong side of a rather large number of your housemates – or, at least, the important ones." Harry nodded, wondering if the man knew about the egg, but Dumbledore didn't mention it. "Your situation is not unique Harry. It is rather common for members of Slytherin house to become outcasts for several days - although, never for as long as a month. However, I have heard that you yourself have been doing little to resolve the divide – it is widely known that you quit the quidditch team, and your professors have been telling me that you refuse house-points. Is that correct?"

Harry nodded, wondering if he was about to be reprimanded. "Yes sir."

Dumbledore sipped his tea, and then popped a sherbet lemon in his mouth, offering the dish to Harry who, again, refused. "That is unusual. How do you feel about the situation, my boy?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't want anything to do with people who don't want anything to do with me."

"A rational conclusion. Well then, if that is the case, let me offer you a possible solution. I am sure you are aware you cannot live out of Severus' quarters forever – and I'm sure you do not wish to. I know it is not generally done, but I could offer you a bed in another house. Perhaps, even a spot on another quidditch team – I saw you play in the first two matches of the year, my boy, and you really were quite exceptional."

Harry cocked his head: "Gryffindor, you mean?"

"Well, I'm sure both Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick would be amenable to having you in their houses, but yes, Gryffindor would be the obvious choice. It is, after all, in your blood. Both Lily and James were in Gryffindor, and the whole Potter line before them."

Harry bit his lip – the offer was surprisingly tempting. It would be glorious revenge upon his housemates, to join forces with their sworn enemies, winning house points for them, and even quidditch games. He knew, however, that those were the wrong reasons to switch houses. There would be no going back, and do so would surely mean cutting ties with Snape and Draco.

"Thank you for the offer sir – it's very generous, but I'm fine with the situation as it is."

Dumbledore spread his hands widely. "Of course, my boy. I won't rush you. Perhaps, however, it might be good for you to spend some time with students from other houses. You have been isolating yourself too much in recent weeks, Harry: you need more than one friend." Harry nodded, again wondering just where Dumbledore got his information from, but before he could reply Dumbledore exclaimed "Ah! And here is Fawkes!"

Harry swung his head around, and there the phoenix was, perched on the sill of the nearest window. Harry exhaled sharply at the sight – the bird was beautiful. All silky scarlet and golden feathers, out of which a long, curved beak and a pair of glimmering black eyes peeked.

Fawkes surveyed the two of them for a moment, his shiny eyes watching Harry in particular. With a sudden ruffle of his feathers he took off into the air, landing on the desk in front of Harry who stared at him, startled. The bird cocked its head, and fluffed his wings, before letting out a long, low trill. Dumbledore chortled. "It appears Fawkes is giving you permission to pet him."

Harry reached out a tentative hand, stroking Fawkes' head which, Harry was surprised to feel, pushed back against his hand in pleasure. As Harry's fingers trailed through the phoenix's soft feathers, he was sure he could see the bird looking at the pocket of his robe, within which his wand lay. Harry wondered if Fawkes could sense the core of his wand was the feather from a phoenix. After a minute or so, Fawkes hopped across the desk, and after a quick stroke from Dumbledore he hopped onto his perch. "He's very beautiful," Harry said, watching Fawkes.

"Yes, you have been fortunate to catch him just two months after his last burning day."

"Burning day?" Harry questioned.

"Phoenixes regenerate by burning. It is the font of their immortality." Harry's mouth fell open.

" _Phoenixes are immortal?_ "

The older man watched him carefully from across the desk. "Yes."

Harry, sensing the headmaster's attentiveness, shifted uncomfortably. "I don't think I'd like to be immortal." That wasn't strictly true, but it wasn't strictly untrue either. Honestly, his own mortality was something Harry had never even considered before. He'd sort of taken it for granted.

"I know some, Harry who would disagree with you." The Headmaster said softly, before shaking his head, and standing. "I think it is time to bring our meeting to an end, Harry. It is getting late, and it won't do for you to be late to bed."

"Yes, sir – goodnight." Harry stood up quickly, shooting the headmaster a tight smile.

"Goodnight, my boy, and don't feel afraid to come to me of you run into any more trouble. If you change your mind about the bed, do let me know. "

Harry departed the office as quickly as he could without being rude, keen to escape the Headmaster's company, and with absolutely no intention of instigating another meeting between them. He was intent on continuing until Easter in the same way he had been for the past few weeks, and he did.

The last month of term flew past Harry in a snowy flurry of schoolwork and spells. The Slytherins continued to attack him, and they finally managed to injure him - a fortnight before the end of term, he had to spent the night in the hospital wing after the bone in his thigh was snapped clean in half as a result of a particularly vicious cracking curse. The perpetrators weren't caught, although Harry had a sneaking suspicion Flint had been involved.

Although he was becoming used to the attacks, he was relieved to be escaping the school for the Easter holidays. Not only would he be able to walk around freely for three weeks without fear of being jinxed, but Lucius had also promised them both another Dark Arts lesson. The prospect was thrilling. In the run up to it he threw himself back into reading his copy of The Darkest of Arts: The Theory and a History, and spent his free time flipping through its pages, trying to process the words on the densely packed pages. It wasn't as if he had much else to do. He thought that perhaps he was finally beginning to make some headway with it. His most interesting find was a section on the wandless casting of dark magic, which was described as being the ultimate goal for a practitioner of the Dark Arts, although virtually impossible for most. Harry made a note to ask Mr. Amoretti if Voldemort had accomplished that particular feat, although he was already pretty sure that the answer would be yes. By all accounts, Voldemort's magical abilities and achievements seemed super-human.

Draco had reissued his invite to the manor, and Harry had taken it up immediately – insisting of course, that they take the floo – with a quarter of the school out to get him, he didn't fancy the train.

* * *

_1st April, 1992_

* * *

 

"Welcome back, _Harry_."

Lucius Malfoy smiled sharkishly at him from across the table.

"Thank you for having me, Sir." Harry inclined his head politely, and Lucius took a sip of wine.

"Indeed."

It was silent for several minutes, but for the clinking of cutlery as they all ate their starters: _black cod soufflé, sir, topped with beluga caviar_. It was only when their plates were clear and had been swept away by a very efficient waiter that Mr. Malfoy spoke again.

"Tell me, Mr. Potter: how has Hogwarts been treating you? I've been informed of your…unfortunate situation." Clearly Draco had not stopped writing to his father. "I hope you know that, whatever is going on at school, you'll always be welcome at Malfoy Manor." Harry bit his lip to prevent a smile at Mr. Malfoy's saccharine tone.

"It's been difficult, but I've experienced that sort of thing before," Mr. Malfoy grimaced at the clear reference to Harry's very muggle-centric upbringing,

Lucius hummed, swirling his wine and fixing his icy eyes on his guest. "I hear Dumbledore has been offering you his own very wrinkled shoulder to cry on. Not to mention a place in good old Gryffindor."

Harry suppressed a smile. "Yes."

"You're not tempted?"

"The situations not quite _that_ desperate yet, no."

"Yes – I'm sure you find ways to pass the time. I do hope you have been reading." Lucius' sharp gaze was pointed.

"I've been doing all the reading I can sir."

Their conversation was cut off once more by the arrival of their main courses, which, Harry was delighted to see, a steaming plate of roast beef, with all the trimmings. This, he knew he liked.

"Do, however, be _careful_ around Dumbledore. He is notoriously skilled at the art of Legilimency." Harry looked at the older man blankly, as he chewed on a potato. "That is, the art of mind reading."

" _It's possible to read minds?_ " Harry dropped his fork. His stomach churned as all of the things Dumbledore could've seen flashed before his eyes. The Dragon egg. Amoretti. The ring.

"For the most powerful of wizards. It was one of the many skills the Dark Lord himself practised. I wouldn't concern yourself with it too much. He would only be able to read your surface thoughts without you feeling a foreign presence in your mind."

Harry shivered at the thought. "That must be terrible."

"Quite." A strange look passed over Lucius Malfoy's face. "Nonetheless, do be cautious. It is best, perhaps, to avoid his gaze. Eye contact is a necessary condition of the practise." Harry nodded, and immediately dropped his own gaze down from Mr. Malfoy's cold eyes to his plate. He heard a chiming laugh. "There is no need to worry about me, _Harry_. There are very few legilimens in the world, and it is not an art I have ever experimented in myself. You are quite safe here." Harry wasn't entirely sure about that, but he looked back up anyway. "I further understand that Severus has been sharing his quarters with you and Draco of late."

"Yes." Harry said, suddenly recalling that Snape was Draco's godfather, so Lucius Malfoy and the potions professor must be friends.

"Well, he no doubt remembers how it feels. Back when we were at school, the very same thing happened to him."

Harry's mouth fell open. "To _Snape_?"

"Quite." Lucius took a delicate mouthful of beef. "His crime was, however, a little different to yours. He fell in love with a mudblood." Harry exchanged a shocked look with Draco, who looked desperate to say something, but was clearly too wary of his father to cut into the conversation. Harry vaguely wondered if Lucius was into corporeal punishment. "It did, however, last for several weeks. We all thought he'd never come round, but he eventually broke it up. Quite publically."

Harry looked at the older man inquisitively. "Who was she?"

A curious, savage sort of smirk spread across Lucius' face. "Nobody you'd know."

Dinner soon came to an end, and as the lord and lady of the manor retired to the drawing room, Harry and Draco scampered off to Romulus's Room - Harry was more than keen to search for one object in particular. However, much to his chagrin, the diary was nowhere to be found. After almost an hour of searching, he was forced to conclude, with some distress, that Malfoy senior must have removed it.

* * *

Their second Dark Arts lesson with Mr. Amoretti took place during the second week of the holiday. They progressed from halving rats to disembowelling them - their tutor seemed to like butchery. A clean disembowelment required more delicacy and precision than halving did, and it took Draco the entire session to manage it. Harry however, thanks to his second wand, did it on his first try, and even moved on to skinning. He was looking forward to moving on to more advanced and less bloody things. Indeed Amoretti promised something trickier for their next session, which had seemingly already been arranged. Harry secretly hoped he was to be invited back to the manor in the summer. He wanted to spend as little time at the orphanage as possible.

The holiday passed far too quickly for Harry's liking. It was all too easy to grow used to the luxury and freedom the manor provided. He and Draco were allowed free reign to do as they pleased, and once their homework was done most days were spent roaming the grounds and playing quidditch, or on particularly cold days entertaining themselves inside. There were endless games to be played in the winding corridors and numerous rooms.

He didn't see a great deal of Mr. Malfoy. The man seemed to be very busy, and was either out of the house or in his study, entertaining guests who Harry caught a glimpse of from time to time as they arrived or left. He didn't recognise any of them: they were mostly expensively-dressed older men who looked like they took themselves very seriously. Draco knew some of their names; Yaxley, Macnair, Rosier - "All old friends of father, of course" - but he didn't seem to know what they talked about. Harry wondered if they ever went up to the mysterious fourth floor.

The thought of returning to school hung over him like the greyest of rain clouds. He didn't want to give up the comfort of life at Malfoy Manor for the hostility at Hogwarts. The other Slytherins, he thought bitterly, were spoiling the most magical place in the world for him.

He found himself reading late into the night, trying not to think about the way things were at school, and Dumbledore, and especially not Theo and Blaise. More often that not, it was Edmund Lear's _The Darkest of Arts: A Theory and the History_ that he opened across his lap, perusing the pages by candlelight. The difficult words inside it were finally beginning to sort themselves out in his head. The more he read, the more he felt that the existence of dark magic was like a secret, suppressed reality, concealed from society at large but always present. Lear wrote as if it was the origin of everything.

Harry remembered learning about the universe at school: the planets, the solar system, and the big bang. From the windows of his room at Malfoy Manor he could see all sorts of constellations – the sky out here in the country was far clearer than the polluted one in London. Whenever he needed a break from reading, he would gaze out through the glossy silk curtains in his room: the black night sky glittered with shard-like stars, and Harry could believe it was all made of dark magic.


	7. I.vii Beware the Heir

**_A/N:_** This chapter is the end of the first section of this fic, and the next part will be set a few years later. Thanks for all your support so far - will try and get the next chapter up soon!

* * *

_21st April 1992_

* * *

 

Harry bit his lip as he watched Draco vanish into a flare of green fire. "Goodbye, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy - thank you again for having me."

Narcissa only nodded at him, but Lucius smiled in his disconcerting, frosty way: "Oh it's no trouble at all, Harry. Farewell. I await our next meeting with anticipation. Draco will owl me when you've sorted out the summer dates."

"I'm looking forward to it, sir." Harry stepped into the fireplace, and scattered the floo powder over his feet: "Hogwarts." Through the haze of smokeless flames, Harry watched as Lucius Malfoy's smirking face twisted, and then disappeared.

22nd April 1992

"Y-you wished t-to see me, He-Headmaster?" Dumbledore looked up as Quirrinius Quirrell popped his anxious face around the door to his office.

"Ah, Quirrinius. Do come in."They young, nervous looking teacher padded in, and perched himself in the chair opposite Dumbledore,surveyed him over the rim of his half-moon glasses. "Tea?"

"N-no, t-thank you, I only d-d-drink w-water actually." The mousy-haired man smiled nervously, his hands quivering.

"You are too careful my friend." Dumbledore smiled, and Quirrell let out a shaky laugh.

"So p-people s-say. P-p-personally, I d-don't think one c-can ever b-be too c-careful!" It was Dumbledore that chuckled this time, pouring tea for himself.

"Can't I at least tempt you to a sherbet lemon?"

"I'm afraid n-not, headmaster." Quirrell's Adam's apple bobbed a little. "W-what was it you wanted to s-speak t-to m-me about?"

"I wanted to discuss Harry Potter."

"P-Potter?"

"Yes." There was a dangerous gravity to the headmaster's gaze as he looked sternly at his employee. "As I understand it, you've been giving him extra lessons of late."

"Y-yes, I t-think the boy has a lot of p-potential." After a short pause, he hastily added "as d-do many of my colleagues—"

"I am aware Harry has been receiving extra tuition in most of his classes. However, Quirrinius, it is the subject of your lessons that are of some interest to me. You have been teaching him to duel, have you not?"

"T-the boy expressed interest in the t-topic, and I h-have humoured him. He is unusually k-keen to learn, I f-find."

"Yes, it would seem so." Dumbledore took a sip from his tea cup, watching the younger man with a stern expression on his face.

"I h-hope, headmaster, that you do n-not disapprove? I k-know that d-duelling is n-not on the official s-s-syllabus."

"I do not generally advocate the teaching of violent magical practise at Hogwarts, no. And more importantly, it would be highly inappropriate for me to allow these private lessons to continue, considering who Harry is."

Quirrell looked dismayed. "I ap-p-pologise headmaster. I didn't k-know you w-w-would object-"

"I'm sure you had only the best intentions, Quirrinius. We will always do our best to let Harry be a normal boy here at Hogwarts, but that will never truly be the case." Quirrell nodded convulsively. "If it emerged that Harry, at just eleven years old, was being privately taught to duel, of all things, it would create all sorts of problems."

"I q-quite understand, headmaster. I q-quite understand. I h-hadn't considered t-that." Quirrell's voice wavered, and broke on the last word.

"Now, my boy, there is no need to be upset. I'm not angry with you. In fact, I have had something of an idea, which would make use of your knowledge of duelling in a different way." Quirrell ran a quivering hand through his hair.

"Oh?"

" I do not see the harm in some basic duelling instruction, conducted in a managed environment, under the supervision of several qualified professors." Quirrell visibly exhaled in relief. "I even think it could be a good way to introduce pupils to the practise, in a controlled and safe manner. It's something I would like to explore, and to cut to the heart of the matter, Quirrinius, I was wondering if perhaps you would be willing to offer some duelling lessons to general student body over the next term as an extracurricular activity."

"L-like a c-club?" The younger man's brow furrowed momentarily.

"Exactly so."

Quirrell's mouth twitched. "C-crowds d-do make me a bit n-nervous, headmaster, but if you r-r-really t-think there would b-be interest, I w-would b-be willing."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Oh, I'm sure there would be, Quirrinius. And such a club would of course allow Harry to learn a little about duelling in a fair and healthy environment." Dumbledore leaned back in his chair with the comfortable air of a man who was in control. "The boy is far too isolated at the moment."

"Y-yes - this business with Slytherin has m-made things q-quite d-difficult for him."

"Indeed. I think that a club just such as this, centred around something which Harry has an interest in, could be a good opportunity for him to get involved with student life a little more, and meet some other children outside of Slytherin. You could even make use of that he knows already and use him to demonstrate - providing, of course, that you don't give away that he's already had some teaching."

Quirrell stuttered: "I s-s-suppose."

"Wonderful. Of course, it will also be a good opportunity for more inter-house interaction across the board. We must labour, Quirrinius, to dissolve the divisions between our students. So, let us decide upon a time."

* * *

_27th April 1992_

* * *

 

"Quirrell's holding a duelling club on Tuesday afternoons," were the first words out of Draco's mouth as he flung open the door.

"What?" Harry shot up off his bed, his charms book sliding off his lap onto his duvet, and stared wide-eyed at his friend. Draco already had his back to him, and was rifling through his case.

"Honestly, you would think they had house-elves to do this sort of thing. It's really quite outrageous we're expected to unpack our own cases—"

"Are you sure?"

"What do you mean, am I sure?" Draco snorted loudly. "Do you really think I'd be doing this if—"

"No, not that, about the duelling club? Are you sure Quirrell's holding one?"

"Well, there's a notice on the Slytherin common room board. Not to mention everyone's talking about it. It looks like the whole school will be attending." Harry could practically hear the sneer in Draco's voice, and thought he was almost definitely thinking about the Gryffindors. "Anyway, why are you so interested?" The blonde boy inspected a piece of his silk underwear. "You're already having extra lessons from Quirrell."

Harry sat back on his bed heavily. For some reason, the news Quirrell was going to hold a duelling club hurt. Learning to duel had been one of the special things he had been doing himself. He didn't like the idea of others now joining in.

"This is ridiculous," Draco threw whatever he was trying to fold back into his trunk, flinging himself onto his duvet moodily. "I'm owling mother – where are you going?" But Harry was already out of the room.

* * *

_1st May 1992_

* * *

 

"Ah. Just the boy I was looking for."

Harry started, and looked up from his essay to see Albus Dumbledore standing in front of him, his hands clasped together, looking benign. Harry was sitting in the library. It had been a favourite haunt of his since the egg incident - as long as he sat under the beady gaze of Madam Pince, he was quite safe from other Slytherins here, and he was able to do things in peace. Or, at least, he was normally able to.

"I had a feeling I might find you here Harry. Madam Pince tells me this is a favourite spot of yours." Harry darted a look at Madam Pince, who was was watching them from behind her desk, her lips pursed and her pen clenched tightly in her hand. "Would you mind taking a turn with me in the grounds, my boy? There is something I would very much like to discuss with you, and I don't think Irma would appreciate my broaching the subject with you here." Indeed, Madam Pince looked like she was about to snap her pen.

"Of course, sir." Harry reluctantly stood up, and packed away his things. As little as he liked being alone with the headmaster, Harry didn't really fancy the other students dotted across the library listening in, who were already watching them curiously. For the week since he had arrived back at school, he had successfully managed to avoid Dumbledore, despite having already received three missives to meet him in his office. Unfortunately, it seemed his luck had finally run out.

They left the library quickly and descended down into the great hall, and out into the late spring sunshine, all without saying a word. It was only when they began to descend the steep steps down to the lake, that Dumbledore began to speak.

"I am sure you have heard by now, Harry, of the duelling club that Professor Quirrell will be holding this term."

Harry nodded, trying not to look or sound sullen: "Yes, headmaster. Everybody is very excited about it."

"Yes, I hear it is the talk of the school. Professor Flitwick tells me that the Ravenclaws are practising already." Dumbledore chuckled, and Harry forced a smile. "Filius, of course, was an international duelling champion himself." Harry perked up at that.

"A champion? There are duelling competitions?"

"There are several. The most renowned, however, is the international T.E.D. - Le Tournoi Exigeant de Duel - held once every three years in Paris."

"Professor Flitwick won that?"

"He won it twice."

"How old was he?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "Twenty-four and thirty, respectively. Don't tell me Harry, that you like the idea of becoming a champion duellist?"

Harry puffed his fringe out of his eyes, and shrugged. "Who wouldn't."

"Duelling is a dangerous sport my boy. A dangerous sport indeed. Filius himself lost all sorts of limbs, and has spent many agonising days re-growing various body parts."

"Why have you allowed this club, then?" Harry asked flatly.

Dumbledore chuckled: "I don't think we need to worry about quite the same dangers that attach themselves to the T.E.D. presenting themselves in our little school club." Dumbledore, Harry thought, clearly didn't realise just how vicious the Slytherins could be - he seemed to have forgotten that last term, one of them had broken his leg. "It will be conducted within perfectly safe conditions - I will be setting up various safety wards myself, so that no harm comes to any participants. However, I must confess that I had a vested interest in Professor Quirrell starting a club." Harry bit his lip. Of course Dumbledore was behind the bloody thing - he should have guessed - and of course the man had an agenda. "As you are aware, it was brought to my attention last term that you had been having rather a lot of extra instruction from your teachers, which I do not object to. On the contrary, I think it is admirable that you are taking such an interest in your studies. However, the content of some of that instruction was not made clear to me until just a few weeks ago. Being taught to duel, my boy, rather different to taught second-year charms. It is not included on the school syllabus for a reason."

Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Thank for your concern, sir, but Professor Quirrell is always very careful."

"I'm sure he is, my boy. However, I still cannot allow the private instruction of one student in an art which is not a part of our official educational program." Harry felt his stomach churn. "However, if all students were given the opportunity, and the teaching was conducted in a safe environment under the supervision of several teachers, it would be rather more acceptable." Harry did his best not to glower. "Not only will this club it give you the opportunity to pursue your interest in duelling, but it will also allow you to meet some students from other houses. I understand that it is difficult for you to make new friends, with the Slytherins behaving the way they are and the other houses being cautious of yours." Dumbledore sighed. "I have always regretted my failure to resolve the difficult relationships that exist between the houses. I often think they do more harm than good." Harry kicked a stone. "I have told you this, Harry, because I am keen for you to attend the first session next week."

"I don't think I can go headmaster - I'd be an open target."

"I thought that you might be reluctant to attend, due to the way in which they have been treating you. However, there is no need to worry for your well being, my boy. You'll be in the plain sight of several teachers, and, as I have already mentioned, I will be setting up wards myself so that no harm can come to anybody. You will be perfectly safe to join in." Harry's eyes widened, but before he could open his mouth to protest Dumbledore continued: "After all, I'm sure you don't want to give up on learning to duel, not when you've only just started."

There was silence for a moment or two, and Harry watched as a cluster of school owls, letters bound to their feet, flew over their heads. The canny headmaster had well and truly put his back up against a wall, and he had managed to do it in such a way that it seemed as if he was doing Harry a favour. He had not been planning to attend the club, due to the risk of attack from other Slytherins. Yet, if he wanted to continue to learn to duel, he couldn't avoid going. And according to Dumbledore, there would be safety wards. Really, the main reason he still felt reluctant abut it was that Dumbledore wanted him to go so much. Yet, he couldn't stand the thought of others learning something he couldn't. "Thank you, headmaster. I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

Dumbledore clapped his hands. "Wonderful! Now that's settled, I'm afraid I must leave you. It has been refreshing to get some air, but now I must return to my paperwork. Until later, my boy!" The older man chucked, a sound Harry was coming to hate, and with a little wave, walked back up to the school, his purple and gold robes glittering in the sun. Harry glowered after him. What a bastard.

* * *

_7th May 1992_

* * *

 

The next few days had passed quickly, and the day of the duelling club loomed oppressively over Harry as he went about his daily business. He couldn't help feeling that it was a risk, whatever Dumbledore said about safety wards, especially if practically the whole school was going. Not to mention, he hated that he was now having to share his special lessons - the thought that didn't settle well with Harry's sense of pride. He liked getting more and being better than everyone else. His recent excellence in lessons had given him a taste for it. He had more than one fantasy about duelling the fifth years, and mowing them all to the ground in one blow, and then turning on his own year mates. It would be sweet revenge to stun Theo and Blaise, his one-time friends: and hear them thud to the the floor. Unfortunately, now everyone would learn how to duel. Dumbledore had messed it all up.

His mood picked up a little on Monday evening, after he deflected a particularly nasty curse back at a sinewy Slytherin fourth-year, who had tried to ambush him outside the charms classroom. Not only had he had the pleasure of watching the boy's skin break out into plague-like boils, but Professor Flitwick had stuck his head of the classroom just in time to see the attack. Indignant on the part of a favourite student, he had assigned the boy a month's detention with Filch. Sometimes, Harry felt, fate tried to make up for all the hard blows it dealt him. He had even managed to avoid Flint, who had been barraging about asking where he was all day – whatever Flint wanted, Harry was sure, he wouldn't want to know.

However, the day of the duelling club soon dawned, and Harry struggled through his classes with a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. It didn't help that Draco kept sharing unlikely stories about his own duelling prowess: "—It was just as I knocked him out that Nikolai Radanovich appeared – you know, the internationally renowned combative dueller, and he immediately invited me to Paris to be his apprentice. Unfortunately, I'd already given my word to mother that I'd spend the summer on the Riviera with her, so of course I couldn't go. A Malfoy always honours their commitments—" Often, Harry thought that Draco was in need of a tongue-tying curse.

The last lesson of the day was Potions, and it seemed to fly past at an unnaturally fast pace. It felt like only minutes after they'd arrived that the end of school bell rung, and Snape dismissed them immediately, slinking off to Merlin knows where. He tried to pack up slowly, but unfortunately Draco wouldn't let him: he had barely picked up his things before he was being forcibly dragged by his sleeve through the dungeons to the great hall, and had to shove them into his bag as he was pulled along.

By the time they arrived, the room was already almost full. Draco pushed forward to the front, but Harry freed himself from his grip, slipping off to hide behind a group of third-year Hufflepuffs. He didn't want to attract any attention until it was completely unavoidable. He looked around, taking in the set-up. The tables and benches that normally filled the hall had been removed, and replaced by one, very long platform, that stretched lengthways up the hall. Quirrell and – to Harry's surprise – Snape were standing on it, having some sort of discussion. They were surrounded on all sides by a sea of students. Harry took note, with trepidation, of the fact that anyone standing where they were was very much at risk of attack should the audience so be inclined. He suddenly spotted Pucey and Tugwood, leaning together against the wall on the opposite side of the hall from him, also deep in conversation. He scanned the room for Flint and his usual crew, but they were nowhere to be seen.

"W-w-w-welcome!" Quirrell started at the volume of his own stutter – he must have cast a sonorous charm – and there were several snickers. "This is the f-first session of the d-duelling c-club, which will b-be held at t-this time every week until the s-summer t-term ends. I hope t-the attendance will r-remain t-this high!" There were a couple of titters at the half-hearted attempt at humour, but otherwise silence. "P-professor Snape has k-kindly agreed to assist m-me," Quirrell nodded at Snape, who stared back at him impassively. "F-for some of you, t-this may be the f-first d-duelling lesson you've ever h-had, s-so we will b-begin with the b-basics: D-d-d-disarming. T-the older students w-will p-probably know this spell, b-but for the younger m-members of the audience, the d-disarming incantation is Expelliarmus. I t-think a d-demonstration is in order. If you would b-be so k-kind, P-professor Snape?"

Snape pulled out his wand with a flourish, and the two professors turned to face each other. There was a buzz of excitement in the audience as Snape raised his wand: "Ex-pelliarmus." Snape drawled, the syllables long in his mouth, and Quirrell's wand slid out of his pocket and into Snape's outstretched hand. There were a few disappointed groans – clearly some students had been hoping for something a little more exciting - and Snape returned the wand to Quirrell with a sneer.

"T-that was a p-p-perfect d-demonstration of the spell. N-now, c-could we have some v-volunteers from the audience to g-give it a g-go?" Quirrell asked hopefully. Surprisingly, nobody put their hand up. Harry kept his decidedly by his side. "Ah, P-Potter!" What felt like hundreds of heads whipped around to look at him, and Harry silently cursed. Of all people, why did Quirrell have to pick him? Unfortunately, it was unavoidable. He made his way slowly towards his teachers, and climbed up onto the platform, standing next to Snape. "D-do we have a s-second v-volunteer?" This time, Harry saw several arms up in the air; all of them, he noticed with dread, were older Slytherins.

"Perhaps," Harry almost jumped at the sound of Snape's smooth drawl above his right ear, "it would be best to pick someone P-P-Potter's own age." Harry felt an odd burst of warmth for his head of house. "Perhaps, Draco?" Harry suddenly noticed the white-blonde head of his only friend a few feet from him, his hand stuck up in the air, and felt another wave of relief.

"G-good idea, S-Severus. C-come on up, D-Draco." Draco ascended onto the stage immediately, smirking smugly down at the heads below.

"Alright b-boys, t-turn, back to b-back." They did so, and Quirrell turned to address the audience. "This is the s-standard position to b-begin a d-duel in. Then, the opponents t-take three p-paces forwards and the d-duel begins. I'll c-count you in b-boys. R-remember, the aim is to d-disarm only." Snape and Quirrell both jumped down off the platform. "Three," they stepped forwards, wands braced, "Two-"

"Protego!"

Harry shouted the charm as he whipped around, at precisely the same time Draco shouted "Expelliarmus!" The blonde ducked his head, and dodged Harry's own disarming spell with surprising speed, before raising his wand once more: "Serpensortia!" Harry's eyes widened in shock as a snake, of all things, shot out of Draco's wand like a spear, and landed with a heavy thud on the floor of the platform between them. There was a collective gasp from the audience, and a couple of whoops from one corner of the room – Slytherins, no doubt. Harry felt a sudden burst of resentment bubble up in him.

What he did next was irrational, he knew. If he had been thinking more clearly, he would never have done it. However, the exhibitionist in Harry, the part of him that wanted to prove something, rose to the surface. An opportunity had just presented itself for him to astound everybody here, and he succumbed to the urge to take it.

"Hello." The snake, which had been hissing at him, reared back in apparent shock.

"Serpent speaker?" The snake's spoke softly, its tongue flashing out.

"Yes, I am a speaker." He walked towards it, knowing it would make the spectacle all the more impressive. "What's your name?"

"Serpents do not deal in names." The snake was swaying in front of him, the upper part of its body raised from the floor, and Harry felt the familiar, half-forgotten sensation of empowerment that communicating with snakes had always brought him. It was as if he was a snake charmer.

"Would you like to help me?"

"I could." The answer was ambiguous, but the snake seemed curious, and Harry felt confident. He'd interacted with enough snakes in his life to know that they always obeyed when spoken to. Politeness was an unnecessary - though considerate - courtesy.

"Come onto my shoulders." For a tense moment, he thought the snake hadn't heard. It continued to sway for several seconds, watching him, but suddenly it moved forward. He held out a hand, and the snake wound its way up onto his body to coil around his neck. He suppressed a shiver at the smooth feeling of the scales as the creature moved over the bare skin of his arm. Harry had never actually held a snake, although he'd spoken to many. It's skin felt strange - almost loose, as if it weren't attached to the flesh underneath. It was also unexpectedly heavy, although Harry supposed he shouldn't be surprised: the creature was a good three feet long.

"Thank you." He hissed to it courteously, enjoying the sensation of snake skin smoothing across his collarbone. He raised his wand sharply:

"Expelliarmus!" Draco's wand flew out of his lax hand and into Harry's, the blonde boy barely even registering it: he was gaping at his friend in disbelief. Casting his gaze around the audience, he saw a similar expression mimicked on many faces, and he felt a sense of deep satisfaction. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he would probably regret this at some point. However, in that moment, he felt glorious. He sought out the faces of Adrian Pucey and Winifred Tugwood, who were both looking completely discomposed - and somewhat unsettled.

There was silence for several moments. No one seemed sure what to do. Everyone was staring at him, and the weight of the snake around Harry's shoulders was becoming uncomfortable. He was relieved when Snape slowly pointed his wand at it, and commanded "Finite Incantatum." The snake vanished, presumably back to wherever it had been summoned from, and its disappearance seemed to shake the students from their reverie. Whispers erupted like wildfire across the room, and Quirrell had to clear his throat several times, with the aid of the sonorous charm, to get their attention.

"A-alright, s-settle down, settle d-down. I t-think it's t-time for you all to have a go. You can g-get down n-now boys, and everyone else s-spilt into p-pairs…" Quirrell stuttered on as Harry dismounted the stage, but the large hand that suddenly gripped his shoulder distracted him from listening. He looked around quickly, and saw the sharp face of Professor Snape.

"Come with me." Harry let the hand guide him from the hall.

* * *

"You know Potter, I can't decide whether that little exhibition of yours was the sort of brash and idiotic display your father was prone to, or inspired." Harry stared at Snape's empty desk chair as he listened to his deep, smooth intonation, projecting from somewhere behind him. He could hear the clinking of glass, and it was only when the man appeared in front of him, two glasses of a dark brown liquid in hand, that he realised he'd been pouring himself a drink. "Brandy?" A glass was offered to him, and he took it with some surprise – Snape wasn't known as the type to offer his guests drinks.

"Is it alcoholic?" He asked suspiciously, peering down into the pungent liquid.

Snape smirked, not answering as he settled himself into his chair, crossing his legs. Screwing up his face, Harry took a small sip, only to blanch at the taste. He immediately pushed the glass away from himself – the drink was not only alcoholic, but also absolutely disgusting.

"I did think it might be a little sophisticated for your palate, Potter. I could ring for some apple juice if that would be more to your taste? Or perhaps a cup of milk?"

Harry glowered at the man, snatching the glass back, and Snape's smirk widened. "You know sir, I'm pretty sure it's against school rules to give students alcohol."

"You know Potter, I think it is." Snape took a long sip of brandy, his eyes fluttering shut. The motion was surprisingly unguarded. "You'd better report the incident to your head of house." Harry snorted, and forced himself to take another sip of the brandy, repressing a gag. It was almost undrinkable, but Harry was determined to finish the glass, just to spite Snape. "Of course, the whole school will be afraid of you now."

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Afraid of me? Why?"

"The ability to speak to snakes, or Parseltongue, as it is commonly known, is a talent attributed to the descendants of Salazar Slytherin."

Harry's eyes widened, and he leaned forward a little. "The Slytherin? As in the founder of our house?"

"Tell me Potter, do you know of any other Salazar Slytherins?" Snape snorted, rubbing his temples. "Obviously. The story goes that he ate the flesh of a Naga, and so gained its powers, including the gift of the serpentine language."

"A Naga?"

"Nagas are, in wizarding legend, the greatest of the serpents. It is said that from them that all other snakes came. Of course, no reliable source has ever actually seen one."

Harry absorbed this knowledge. "So only the descendants of Salazar Slytherin can speak to snakes? Then I'm his descendant?"

Snape swilled the liquid in his glass around, his gaze distant. "That is what people have always said, and that is what people undoubtedly will say about you. However, facts suggest otherwise. There has never been any link made between the Potter family and Slytherin, and your mother was a muggleborn."

"So neither of my parents spoke to snakes?"

Snape snorted. "No. Before you came along Potter, the only person I've ever known to be a parselmouth was the Dark Lord."

Harry suddenly felt breathless. "The Dark Lord? He spoke to snakes?"

"Yes, Potter, that is what I just said." Snape pinched his nose in irritation.

Harry leaned back in his chair, thoughts whirring, then, looking at his professor, he cocked his head, a sly grin on his face. "You know, sir, Lucius Malfoy told me that only the Dark Lord's followers call him the Dark Lord."

Snape stared at him for a few seconds, unmoving, and Harry shifted a little, suddenly feeling he had perhaps gone too far. However, when Snape replied, his voice was even. "With that consideration in mind Potter, it's very interesting that you refer to him in the same way."

They stared at each other. Snape's black eyes felt as if they were burning into Harry's mind, and he remembered, with a horrified jolt, another piece of knowledge Mr. Malfoy had imparted upon him: "You're a legilimens!" The words had escaped his mouth before he could stop them, and he glared furiously at Snape's mouth. "You've been reading my mind!"

Snape hummed darkly, his thin lips stretching into a grin. "Perhaps."

Harry snarled. "My thoughts are private—"

"Not to me."

Harry felt a biting retort on his tongue, an angry insult, but he held it back.

"How long have you been reading my mind?" The older mans grin curved into a smirk, but he still didn't reply. "You have to tell me!"

"I don't think I do Potter. My thoughts, you see, are private."

"You've been doing it ever since you first met me, haven't you?" Snape only smirked in response, and Harry seethed. He had the urge to throw his disgusting brandy in Snape's face, but had enough presence of mind to know that that definitely wouldn't be worth the consequences. Snape wasn't the type of man you messed with, and most definitely not the type of enemy you wanted to have. He settled for glared at his forehead.

"You know, Potter, a true Slytherin would see an opportunity here." Harry refused to rise to the taunt, but Snape continued. "Or are you never going to look anyone in the eye again?" It took Harry a few moments to cotton on to what Snape was saying, but when he did, he felt his rage dim a little. Slowly, he lowered his eyes to meet Snape's own.

"You could teach me Legilimency?" He did his best to keep the grit out of his tone, and met Snape's dark eyes steadily. As Harry had expected, the older man didn't answer immediately. He took a leisurely sip of brandy, all the while holding his student's gaze. It must have been a good minute before he finally replied.

"No, I could teach you Occlumency. However, Potter, seeing as you forgot the magic word—"

"Please?" Snape's eyes narrowed at being cut off, and Harry swallowed. There was another silence before Snape finally replied:

"Very well." Harry felt a genuine grin stretch across his face, and his anger at Snape's poking about in his mind receded. "I will try Potter, if you can keep up." Harry's smile hardened, and he forced himself to take another sip of brandy – it wasn't quite so bad on the third attempt. His mouth and throat had sort of become numb to it.

"I will, sir."

There was silence for a while, and Harry gradually let his eyes wander around the room; across the various jars filled with nefarious substances that lined the walls, to the bookcases behind the desk, to the fish tank filled with floating brains on the floor. He could feel Snape's eyes upon him, and wondered, almost bitterly, what he was thinking. He considered the face of his professor, recalling the little knowledge he had of Legilimency.

"Mr. Malfoy also said that only the most powerful wizards can be Legilimens."

"Lucius says a lot of things. He always has liked the sound of his own voice." Snape swilled his drink around, watching the amber liquid spiral in the glass. "You might do better to listen to him less." Harry bit his lip. "You and Draco better move your things back into the dormitory."

"The dormitory?"

"Please do not parrot my words back at me Potter; yes, the dormitory."

Harry stared at him: "I can't professor – they'll lynch me!"

Snape's lip curled. "After your little display this afternoon, Potter, I can assure you that the attitude of your housemates towards you will have quite changed." Harry stared blankly at him. "Sometimes I do worry about your mental aptitudes Potter. Have you forgotten what I said about Slytherin?"

"They'll all think I'm descended from Slytherin." He said slowly, looking up at Snape, who rolled his eyes. "But I'm not."

"Who knows Potter. Maybe you are."

"But you said—"

"I don't actually know if you are or not. You are descended from thousands of people – there is a possibility one of them was Salazar Slytherin, however unlikely I personally think it is. Either way, in terms of your relationship with your housemates, things have taken a decided turn for the better."

Harry wrinkled his nose. "I don't like any of them after everything they've done."

Snape inhaled sharply, leaning forward. "Don't be ridiculous Potter. It's not about liking them." He topped up his drink. "If you want to get by in Slytherin, you don't take anything personally and you don't take anyone personally. Do you really think that they all like each other? That there aren't tensions between them? This round concerning you might be over, but the game goes on. That's what Slytherins do, more and more so as they grow older. So, if you know what's good for you, you'll get straight back to that common room and play."

Harry bit his lip, then nodded, and Snape exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "I really do question your sorting."

"I'll miss staying in your quarters, sir."

Snape looked as if he felt slightly violated. "Get out."

Biting his lip to contain his smile, Harry stood up and left the room, feeling lighter than he had in months. It seemed things were finally taking a decided turn for the better, after the unpleasantness of the past few months. He revelled in the image of the older Slytherins lying at his feet as he packed away. He knew of course, that they wouldn't literally do that, but it was a nice metaphorical image of what he now knew was to come. He considered sending someone else from the common room to fetch his case - he would like to make Flint do it. On the other hand, it probably wouldn't be very wise to humiliate anyone – the last thing he'd want to do would be to compromise his current position.

It would be better, he thought, to be nice. He'd be friendly to everyone, despite his blatant advantage, and he'd force them to like him even if they didn't want to. Manipulating their emotions would give him more influence than they'd never rationally allow. He wouldn't, however, make the mistake of actually thinking of any of them of friends again. Only Draco. His eyes narrowed as he thought of Theo and Blaise.

The future, he thought as he strolled along the corridor, scattering several terrified Hufflepuffs with his mere presence, was looking good.

* * *

_9th May 1992_

* * *

 

"So, Harry Potter speaks to snakes. How intriguing." Evan Rosier's blue eyes glinted in the candlelight.

"Did you really have no idea, Lucius?" Jack Yaxley leaned back in his chair, his thicks arms folded loosely over his broad chest. His voice was hard, but his face belied his amusement. Lucius, looking vexed, glared into his wine glass.

"You shouldn't sulk Lucius." Mads Mulciber winked at the others, a slight Dutch accent colouring his words. "You'll wrinkle that beautiful forehead." Smoothing out his expression, the Malfoy lord shot him a frosty look.

"I'm not sulking, Mulciber, I'm thinking." The others exchanged amused looks, and Lucius continued: "I confess, I was surprised by Skeeter's article. Potter had not told Draco, and though he wrote to me after the incident, his letter only reached me after Tuesday's Prophet."

Yaxley shook his head almost disbelievingly. "This is something else. We knew the boy has a feel for dark magic, but parseltongue." He took a deep drink of wine. "Parseltongue, of all things."

"The language of our lord." Rosier murmured, and Mulciber licked his lips, and grinned. Before anything else was said, there was a loud knock on the door to the study.

"Do come in," Lucius called, and the large doors swung open, revealing a tall, dark, cloaked figure.

"Sorry I'm late." Walden Macnair didn't sound very sorry, as he pushed back his hood with bloody hands,his expression grim. "I was dealing with a messy execution."

Lucius looked at him with disgust. "These chairs, Macnair, are Chinese silk-"

"Spare me the provenance, Malfoy. I'll tidy up before I sit down." He pulled off his cloak and wiped his hands on it, before dropping it on a nearby house elf, who disappeared immediately with a pop. Macnair eyed the bottle of red wine on the desk with disdain.

"I want firewhiskey."

"Tippy, fetch the Montrose." Another elf popped away, and almost immediately returned, with a bottle of dark liquid and several tumblers balanced on a tray. As Tippy served Macnair, he dropped into an empty chair.

"What are you talking about?"

"Potter speaking parseltongue," said Yaxley, exchanging his wine glass for a tumbler of firewhiskey. Macnair grunted.

"No one will shut up about that."

Mulciber raised his eyebrows. "It doesn't interest you?" Macnair shrugged, taking a swig from his tumbler.

"Children are children." Macnair said dismissively, holding out his glass for more alcohol.

Mulciber stared at him disbelievingly. "It's not at all interesting to you that Potter, of all people, is the only known parseltongue since our lord?"

"It fascinates me." Rosier rested his chin on his hand. "That boy is full of surprises." Macnair looked nonplussed.

"Perhaps in a few years he'll be interesting. Perhaps not."

Lucius sneered, picking an invisible hair off his robe. "That 'perhaps', Macnair, is controllable. We can make Potter interesting."

Mulciber grinned at the haughty blonde. "Ah, Lucius. He never doubts." His grin died a little. "I can't be quite so sure." Yaxley hummed his agreement.

"The extent to which Potter can be steered remains to be seen."

Rosier stroked his jaw, and spoke softly: "Yet, it's worth trying. Because, if he does finally fall our way, as his talents suggest he would be inclined to do, it would change the game."

Mulciber cocked his head. "Still not interested, Macnair?"

The executioner ground his teeth, and shot them all dark looks. "My loyalty is to the dark lord alone." A tension filled the dark room. "The only event I anticipate, with every bone in my body, is his return and accession. Then, his judgement of Potter, will be mine." Macnair slammed his glass down on the table with unnecessary force, and pulled out his wand. "Now, are we going to sit here gossiping like old fishwives all night, or are we going to go upstairs and have some fun?"

The others took a last drink, and stood. Lucius looked at Tippy, and gestured lazily at the glasses, bottles and chairs: "Clear this up." They left the room.

* * *

_11th May 1992_

* * *

 

"Were you aware, Albus, that Potter was a parselmouth?" Minerva McGonagall watched the headmaster from across the table, her eyebrows raised as she stirred her coffee. That morning Dumbledore had called the weekly meeting between the four heads of house, and they were sitting around around his office desk, nursing hot beverages.

He sighed as he leaned back in his chair, resting his bearded chin on his steepled fingers. "Yes. I learned of it from Hagrid and Severus," he nodded at the Potions master, "Harry mentioned it when they delivered him his letter last summer."

Professor McGonagall's lips tightened. "And you didn't see fit to inform the rest of the staff?"

"I confess, Minerva, that I saw no reason too. It is a harmless enough talent in itself—"

"But think of the implications, Albus." McGonagall exhaled sharply.

"And what exactly," Snape cut in, "are those implications?"

"You know as well as I do Severus, that the last known Parselmouth was You-know-who himself."

"And what exactly," he sneered, " do you think that signifies?"

"Parseltongue is a talent associated with dark magic, Severus, as you well know."

"All that I will say on the matter," Flitwick chipped in, setting his cup of tea down on his coaster, "Is that Potter is an excellent student. Moreover, I've always found him very agreeable. I think it would very wrong of us to condemn him for having been born with an uncommon talent."

"I'm not condemning him, Filius – Merlin knows Potter is just a boy. However, this ability to speak parseltongue suggests that the boy may be, should he encounter it, unusually susceptible to the temptations of dark magic. And such a correlation with He-who-must-not-be-named is undeniably significant. Potter is connected to him in ways none of us understand. This revelation of a further link has made me deeply uncomfortable. I wish, Albus, that I had been informed before."

"Perhaps, Minerva, you would feel differently if Potter were in Gryffindor." Snape looked coldly at McGonagall, who pursed her lips, before lowering her piercing gaze to the left sleeve of the Potion Master's robe.

"I might feel differently, Severus, if the only company he kept wasn't with one of the most notoriously dark families in the country-"

"Come, come," Professor Sprout said soothingly, tutting at them, "Let's have none any of this animosity. There's no point in making a big song and dance about such a thing. It is what it is."

"Sensible as always, Pomona," Dumbledore smiled at her benignly, looking distant. "In time, things will make themselves clear. Until then, I'm afraid that we must wait, and give young Harry the benefit of the doubt-"

"It is not a question of criticising the boy, Albus." McGonagall bristled. "It is a question of assessing his current position, and recognising that perhaps we have been negligent. We have a responsibility for the boy, who is an orphan, and we need to ensure that, rather than being isolated - virtually friendless - under the influence of men such as Lucius Malfoy, he is exposed to wider society."

"By which you mean exposed to your students, instead of mine," Snape's glare was furious. "You would do well to remember, Minerva, that Potter was sorted into my house, and he is under my care, not yours, however painful you might find it."

"Excuse my doubt about your care of the boy, Severus, when it not only involves allowing the boy to spend school holidays with the Malfoys, but also endorses such draconian practises as house exclusion. Under your care, Potter has been ostracised and attacked by his own house members - one of your students broke his leg, a student, I might add, whom you have neither attempted to catch nor punish!"

"You've never expressed a problem with the traditions my house has been observing for centuries before."

"I've never heard of anything like what's been happening to Potter!"

"Then it is very strange that you have only raised these concerns today, three months after Potter's difficulty with Slytherin began, and moreover after it has ended."

"You hated his father, Severus, and I worry that you allowed that frankly deplorable behaviour because you dislike the boy." This was followed by an uncomfortable silence. Snape's face was dark, and when he spoke, it was with grit.

"Say what you will. Your fear of the boy's ability to speak parseltongue, rather than any concern for him, is leading these ad hominem accusations. They reveal more about your own prejudices than mine. Your seem to be suggesting that the fact Potter is a parselmouth is a symptom of a detrimental Slytherin influence trying somehow to bind him to the dark, when you know very well that it is an inherited ability he was practising long before he knew the wizarding world existed. It is not a sign of something 'gone wrong', as you put it, but a genetic inheritance. Likewise, he himself chose to be friends with Draco Malfoy. Why shouldn't I have allowed the boy to spend his holidays with his best friend, when the alternative would have been a lonely sojourn either here, when he was fighting with his housemates, or at a muggle orphanage he hates? I myself have treated Potter, and will continue to treat him, like any other Slytherin, because that is what he is."

"Potter is not just any other child." McGonagall said emphatically, her forehead furrowed, but she could feel the tide of opinion in the room now moving against her.

"Severus is responsible for Harry, Minerva." Dumbledore said quietly, but firmly. "I trust him with Harry's care. Fortunately this conflict within Slytherin seems to have come to an end, and Harry has moved back into his dormitory with the other students. I agree that it would be best for him to socialise more widely, with children from other houses - indeed, to increase inter-house friendships in general. However, that is something we should all work on cooperatively, not by arguing between ourselves." McGonagall looked conflicted, but nodded stiffly, and Dumbledore's voice softened. "I am sorry that you have been disturbed by the discovery of Harry's ability to speak parseltongue, and I can understand why you feel the way you do. I cannot deny that I myself have been concerned about the boy. However, Severus is right. It might put your mind at peace to know that I myself have begun to build a relationship with him over the past few months, during this period of tension between Harry and his house. Rest assured that I have no intention of leaving him alone to the influences of Lucius Malfoy, though it would be wrong of me to interfere in any relationship he may have with him. Harry is not a normal boy," he raised his voice a little, "but we must do our best to let him be one. We must allow him some freedoms, but also counsel him, especially considering that he is an orphan. Most importantly, we must show him kindness. Both Severus and I," he exchanged a meaningful look with the Potions master, "will be doing our best, during his time at Hogwarts, to direct him along the right path."


End file.
